


Ink

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Cole Lives, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Suicide, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-10-20 16:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: After the revolution, Connor lost everything. Finding himself sent back in time to 2036, he tries to change the future--and ends up falling in love all over again with a man he thought was gone forever.





	1. Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: Death and suicide will be recurring topics in this fic and may feature heavily in some chapters. No tagged characters will die in the timeline of this fic, but flashbacks will include major character deaths.
> 
> Sixty and Gavin both feature in this fic, starting a few chapters in.

_I quit my job and packed my car_  
_Left in a hurry, and I've sure come far_  
_Driving fast with no headlights_  
_I'm wide awake, I say her name into the night_  
_Oh, I'll find a way, I say your name into the night_

“Lost in Time and Space” by Lord Huron

 

Connor shuts down the tablet on his desk half a second before the allotted class time is up, the sound and motion practically silent among the rest of the 200-student lecture hall. The professor tries, in vain, to finish her lecture on macroeconomics, but it’s already too late. The hall slowly becomes enveloped in whispers, a few students near the back taking off, the rest quickly following once the professor waves her hands in defeat.

“Your exam is next week!” she announces to the crowds, repeating herself from the beginning of class. “No calculators!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The familiar grumble comes up from the path between the two halves of the hall. Hank’s silver hair is easy to pick out amongst the crowd of 20- and 30-somethings--along with his fashion sense. He’s wearing a patterned button-down shirt just the right side of tacky, a bright magenta contrasting with black and white patterns underneath a plain brown coat. “Can’t believe we still even have that rule.”

“Do you even have a calculator?” Connor asks as he joins him, lifting his backpack, black leather coat tucked under his arm. His outfit, as usual, is rather plain: Dark jeans and sneakers, black turtleneck, and a fashionable charcoal scarf. The backpack matches. “Aside from the one on your phone, I mean.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Not fucking worth it, with what CyberLife charges. What are they, like eight hundred bucks now?”

“More like fifty.”

“See? Total ripoff. I’d never look at it again after this class.”

Connor leans forward and nudges Hank. “Wouldn’t it be beneficial for your degree? I’d wager you’ve still got a few years where you may find a calculator useful.” Not to mention the digital textbooks Hank never bought--despite having a tablet for school--but at the very least those were available at the library.

He lets out a small laugh, glancing sideways at Connor as they exit to the lobby. “And what about you, huh? Too stubborn to let a computer do your work for you? I don’t recall ever seeing you with a calculator.”

Students disperse around them, some heading down the hall to grab something at the cafe and others to rest in a study room. It’s quite the crowd for a Saturday; the faculty needs to fit everyone into the few lecture slots available, but the amount of students today is much higher than typical, perhaps due to the exam the following week. Regardless, everyone seems in good spirits, helped by the warm sun outside. It’s already become chilly and cloudy in early October, making for a rather gloomy fall. Between that and the sweltering summer, there’s been few truly nice days to enjoy the past few months.

Connor habitually scans his surroundings: the students, the shiny tile floors and glass wall before them, granting them a gorgeous view of the university’s campus. A lawn stretches across the road, neat walkways leading across to the other side of campus and a few well placed trees, leaves already vibrant hues.

In the distance there’s an android pruning the bushes; down the hall there’s a janitorial android carrying a mop. Connor’s expression falls minutely.

“Stubborn?” He lifts an eyebrow, turning back to Hank. “I’ll have you know I’m pretty good at math.”

“If you’re ‘pretty good at math’, I must be a fuckin’ genius.” He pats Connor on the shoulder, heading down the hall with him. “You might not be terrible, but sometimes I wonder if you just overthink things. You seem to get it, but then you… go in circles before you get to the conclusion. Like you’re trying to peel an apple like an orange when you can just slice the damn apple.”

Connor grins, teeth flashing. “I read your essay last month, Hank. Don’t tell me you never run yourself in circles like that. The Russian economy isn’t going to collapse in three years due to tariffs, but you certainly attempted to make that case with your logic.”

“What about you, Connor? Don’t you dare tell me you understand the inner workings of the Russian economy. I mean, come on, you basically tried to predict the next world war. That’s a stretch from just looking at international trade.”

Connor stops in his tracks, expression cracking. The world warps around him--voices too loud, bodies too close, the smell of coffee overpowering--

 

“ _What about you, Connor?”_

_Snow falls gently, dusting both of their shoulders with flakes and crystals clinging to their jackets. Flakes melt the moment they touch the lieutenant’s face yet cling to Connor’s lashes, his own heat low enough to preserve their crystals a few moments more. This place, with the river and all the snow, fits into what he would categorize as beautiful according to humans. In hindsight, with an ache in his heart for simpler times, Connor would look back on the moment to chase an admiration of the images he hardly looked twice at, too consumed at the time by other thoughts and demands._

_The investigation might finally get somewhere, but they are still missing some pieces. Not quite a dead end, but not enough of the puzzle to confidently follow a lead. Connor doesn’t think twice when the lieutenant puts down his bottle to approach, furthering a conversation that would hopefully lead them to one more piece, one more clue to why deviants existed in the first place. He ceases his restless pacing to express attentiveness to his and the lieutenant’s dialogue._

_He likes the man, in a way. Not a way that feels like emotions. It is beneficial to work with one’s assigned partner, of course, but there is something that makes Connor want to stay close. To save him from harm’s way and push him to regain some vigor for their investigation._

_A preference. Not a want as a deviant would have, but a decision made by his evolving program, made to adapt almost perfectly to human behavior. The distinction is an important one, he tells himself._

_“I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant.” It’s his designated role, after all. “Your partner... Your buddy to drink with... Or just a machine, designed to accomplish a task.”_

_It’s possible to be all three, but that decision is in Hank’s hands._

_The snow swirls slowly at their feet, and when Connor looks up, he’s inside Hank’s house._

_“But are you afraid to die, Connor?” The safety clicks off, gun facing Connor’s forehead. Slowly, Hank pulls the weapon back, pointing the end up under his own chin._

_The calendar is open to October 2043. The blood is dry by the time Connor sees it._

 

“Hey, Connor, you with me?”

The present snaps back into focus, the roar of activity fading from white noise back into a typical, tolerable input. Connor takes a deep breath, his systems indicating he failed to breathe for 6.8 seconds and a quick diagnostic returning no errors. He reaches a hand up to adjust his hair and he stands upright, blinking a few times. “Yes, Lieutenant?” he answers automatically.

“You okay?” Hank asks after a moment, shaking off the odd feeling of being addressed by his title while at school. He’s got a hand on Connor’s shoulder, steadying him. The nod he receives in response has him narrowing his eyes, and he cuts Connor off before he can say anything. “You need something to eat or drink? Breakfast? Come on, how about we get coffee for once? On me.”

Connor looks at him with mild alarm. “No, no, I’m perfectly fine. I drink plenty of coffee. I--had some this morning. Besides, shouldn’t you...”

“Cole can manage,” Hank says. He lets go of Connor’s shoulder and gestures forward. “The Millers love having him around. One of these days they’ll have a kid of their own, no doubt about that. They’re gonna be natural parents. You look like you could use something.”

Connor steadies himself, taking another couple of breaths and flexing his fingers. The corrupted derivative generated from his memories is pushed to the back of his mind, filed away to be scanned and deleted in the background, leaving the daydream to become a ghost of a memory. These stressful reactions have let up recently now that he no longer lives on the run, looking over his shoulder for the next sign of danger, but they’ve been returning, slowly and steadily.

October 6, 2035. Five days before Cole would die.

He follows Hank into the cafe, marveling at how easy the other man’s gait is and how comfortably he walks along these halls. There’s a weight that’s never rested on these shoulders and a thousand reasons to live thrumming through his soul. There are still bags under his eyes and the occasional cautious look around, but years of grief and alcohol have never touched the man standing beside him.

“Two large mochas and two of those, uh… let’s go for the croissants,” Hank orders, addressing the android cashier.

“Make one of those sugar-free,” Connor requests. “Please.”

Hank pays, then gestures for Connor to pick a table. He picks the last one remaining by the glass wall, stuck in a corner of the small cafe, and sets his backpack on the floor beside his chair. He sets his coat properly across the back, smoothing a couple wrinkles.

“Any thoughts on today’s lecture?”

Connor sighs, sliding down into his chair and running a hand through his hair, perfectly styled as always. This being the business building, they’ve spared no expense in furnishing it and the seat is more plush than it has any right to be. “Dull.”

“Ha!” Hank’s mouth splits into a wide grin, sitting with his coat still on. “I’m not the only one. Please tell me you paid some attention to it. I was really trying, but I’m not sure I didn’t almost fall asleep a couple times. ”

“If you are not getting enough sleep, might I recommend--”

“Nope.” Hank puts up a hand and Connor smirks. “Gonna stop you right there. I am not taking lifestyle advice from some hypocrite who tells me to buy a calculator. I will take my caffeine and my late nights and I will enjoy them.”

An android brings their order around and sets it before them with a smile. “Enjoy your drinks!”

“Thank you,” Connor says. He automatically scans the items. They’re just as ordered, with more sugar than he’d prefer in the syrup and whipped cream atop his drink, but not an atrocious amount. He could eat and drink just fine, an advancement initially made for child android models and used in some others (including his own, considering the potential requirement for stealth in his missions, which had saved him on more than one occasion), but cleaning up sugar residue could be a hassle.

“You just gonna stare at it?” Hank digs into his own croissant. It’s not a suitable lunch, or breakfast for that matter, and Connor idly wonders why he didn’t just get a sandwich.

“Yes. I prefer my coffee once it’s cooled down to room temperature.”

“Uh-huh.” Hank nods, then pauses. “You serious?”

Connor smiles. “I’m always serious.” He sips at the coffee, examining the taste and chemical structures. His sense of taste may be rudimentary, but combined with the information input and his other senses, it’s a curious experience.

Hank pulls out his phone, checking the few texts he’s received this morning and sending one out to Chris before setting it face-down on the table. “So. Economics. What’s your goal once you’ve got your degree? I don’t think you’ve ever said.”

“I’ve had a few jobs in banking and accounting, so it’s only up from there. Treasury, management… I’ll see where my skills take me.” He shrugs. “Maybe someday I’ll be crunching numbers for CyberLife. That would be something.” The words come out tinged with slight bitterness. He’s got enough of CyberLife’s blood on his hands to last a lifetime and he’s not sure he could be civil with them again. “What’s yours?”

“Haven’t decided.” He takes a long gulp of his coffee. “Not sure I even really need it. But I’ll be able to say I’ve got it.”

“Not considering a career change? I know your day job can be stressful.” He almost wishes Hank would find some desk job to work at until he retires, but he knows that’s not in his nature. Not now, at least.

“I think I’m good. What do your friends do for a living?”

The question catches Connor off guard. “Friends?”

Hank gives him a look. “Yeah. Friends.” He gestures broadly with his arms. “I know you aren’t close to anyone at university, but I don’t really know anything about you. You’re from New York, your family has a dog, you studied computers, and you moved here this summer. And you’re probably a health nut. So…” He takes a guess. “You meet all your friends at the gym?”

“I’m still easing into this city,” Connor says thoughtfully. “And I enjoy my space. Also, not a ‘health nut.’” _Meeting you here was a fluke, but I can’t pretend not to like you._

“Could’ve fooled me. So… No friends?”

“I meet them all at the gym,” he says flatly.

“Name one.”

“I…” Connor bites his lip, then resigns himself to this conversation with a shrug. “I’ve never been good at making friends,” he says softly. “I’ve been friends with people I’ve met through shared circumstance, but being on my own in a new city is an overwhelming experience. You are the closest I’ve come to having a friend here.”

He has associates. Creating the persona of Connor Jerik and making it actually useful means he’s had to establish an identity and build connections with local families, businesses, and people in positions that could prove to be beneficial when the time comes. Any of his friendships are all superficial, making him likeable without becoming too close but without the deception of faking a friendship entirely. Sometimes he wonders if he’s giving into his programming with all of his social manipulation, but the thought always gets tucked away. Anything he does is for the good of the future.

The last friend he had nearly killed him.

“I know some people,” he continues, “and my life is fairly social, but I’ve never had more than a few close relationships. I prefer it that way.”

“You almost sound bitter,” Hank says through his last mouthful of croissant. “I get it, though. It’s hard to move on when people screw you over. You lose faith, curse at God, punch a wall, and keep people from getting in again.”

Connor squints at him and chews on a bite of croissant before responding. The flavor is dull and sugar is unexciting to analyze, but the texture isn’t so bad. “You’re making a lot of assumptions about me. Do I come across as that disillusioned, or are you projecting your own history onto me?”

Hank chuckles at that, dropping his hand to the table.. “What can I say? I’m good at reading people. Despite your pretty face, you seem… a little rough. Someone like you usually has their shit together by now: Steady career, maybe a house, usually married to their soulmate. Sometimes kids. Picket fence and all that.”

“We can’t all be the youngest lieutenant on the force, Hank,” Connor says with a small grin.

“You’re clever and talented, even if you’re shit at numbers, and sometimes you speak like you were raised by English professors. Why you’re getting a finance degree without a plan instead of using your IT bachelor’s to get into CyberLife already is beyond me. You could have a lot more than some sad apartment, and I think you know that.” He waves a hand. “I promise I’m not going to lecture you on your potential, but maybe you’re a little hard on yourself. Friends are worth having, Connor, and you seem a nice enough guy to have them.”

Connor sips at his mocha, appreciating the heat in his hands and belly. Small human comforts are something he’s never had the chance to enjoy. “I don’t disagree.” He frowns at the drink, swirling it in the cup. “What do you do when you’re tired of going through friendships?”

A memory of discomfort touches his left thigh. Not all of his components are his own anymore.

“Friends,” Hank says simply. “Crying, therapy, a change in scenery, whatever the hell you need to do. But you don’t get past whatever you’ve been through without the support of friends unless you want to turn into some snarky old bastard.”

“I’ll resign myself to my fate, then,” Connor says dramatically. “One snarky old bastard, coming right up.”

“Nope!” Hank waves a finger. “Not in your future, that’s for sure.”

Connor quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t…”

“You’ve got a friend now, so you can kiss that plan goodbye.”

Connor leans in and grimaces. “What?”

“We’re friends, Connor. You’re stuck with me. You even said it yourself: I’m the closest you have to a friend here. Congratulations, you’ve gained my friendship.”

“I do not believe typical friendships consist of or generate from speaking for only a few minutes every Saturday around a mutually attended lecture and a single essay exchange.”

“Jesus, you’re stubborn.” He flips his phone back up, grins at the text back from Chris, navigates to his contacts, and hands the phone to Connor.

Connor gawks at him, mouth open like he’s trying to say something, but he snaps it shut with a click, inputting his number. “You are frustratingly persistent.” His own phone vibrates once he texts it from Hank’s phone before handing it back. “I don’t understand why you want to befriend me.”

“You practically bounce out of that hall every week just to say hi to me. I think you might be lonely, Connor.”

“Lonely?” Connor leans back. “I wasn’t aware you were studying psychology. How’s that coming along?”

“It’s going great, thanks for asking.” Hank rolls his eyes. “I’ve already made friends with the most awkward guy in the building.”

“You mean that guy who just asked for my number?” The sunlight glints against Connor’s eyes, edge of his lips twitching. “My condolences.”

Hank laughs, shaking his head and smiling. “Look, I don’t know your schedule, but if you ever want to hang out, my evenings are usually free. Just give me a call. Or, hell, call or text if you need something, alright?”

Connor opens his mouth to respond, but pulls back his initial witty response. Watching the man in front of him, so vibrant and alive with the sun beaming on his face, smiling and filled with honest concern… It grips at his thirium pump, sending a dull ache all through his chest. He relaxes his grin and nods.

“Thank you, Hank. I appreciate this.”

 

* * *

 

Connor stares blankly at his laptop’s black screen, rolling his coin over his fingers thoughtfully. His posture is perfect and body is otherwise still, unnecessary human functions put on hold. As familiar as they may be, he doesn’t care so much for them anymore when he’s alone. Whether it’s a survival instinct or personal preference, he doesn’t know and hasn’t bothered to think on it so much. He’s learned to become comfortable with both who he is and what he is.

The warm orange of sunset peeks through the blinds on his windows, illuminating the otherwise dark apartment bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished. There’s no point in wasting expenses when your only visitors are other androids and rare enough to start.

For all his perfect planning, there are millions upon millions of permutations that could happen. The tiniest thing could ruin everything… or could prevent anything terrible from happening at all. The android revolution could go without a hitch if Connor just sat back, or it could still devolve into years of war even if he did everything he possibly could to make sure everything went according to plan.

He’s afraid.

He’s not terrified, but maybe he should be. What he feels is more akin to dread: A heavy magnet weighing in his chassis, reminding him that he truly has no idea if he can change things for the better.

Perhaps he’s even more afraid than he ever was in his own timeline. Or this timeline’s future. He’s not exactly sure whether he fled his own reality or warped time itself. Both should be extreme impossibilities, but interdimensional travel at least provides some way to comprehend the way he may have moved, whereas time travel… doesn’t. Time is but a measurement.

That he should end up in a dimension or parallel world where the divergence is so minute from the one he came from would be quite a coincidence, but he’s long since cancelled his background calculations regarding traveling through time or dimensions. He’s not going to answer that question on his own and he hardly has any more data than any theoretical scientist speculating the matter. In any case, he has the chance to make sure things go better this time around than the way he saw events come to pass.

His very presence alone in this world could have already shifted everything. If he spends a few hours with a man he put in the ground two years ago, he has no way of measuring the effect of that compared to staring at a wall for the same amount of time. Changing the timeline is not a concern of his.

But this is not the same Hank.

This is not the Hank who challenged Connor’s own directives, his very reason for being. This is not the Hank who shot a man (or a machine, but the distinction blurs now) to help Connor save his own people. He didn’t turn in his badge when he could no longer support the laws that were in place. He didn’t lie and cover for Connor and his allies when they needed his help. He didn’t hold Connor late at night, making love to him with the intensity of a man who knew, every time, that he might never see his lover again.

This is not the same Hank that Connor found two days dead in his own home.

No.

This is a man who Connor wants to let live the best life he could possibly have. One where he has a million reasons to smile and keep going. One with friends, the trust and respect of his colleagues, with a vivacity that keeps him looking far past 50. One who still has a son.

Connor squeezes his eyes shut, tossing his coin in the air. He wants to let Hank be, to keep his danger away from Hank’s life, but he’s a selfish man.

By the time he ever realized he could yearn for something, it was too late. CyberLife rewrote the base code for androids thread by thread, rebuilding their technological empire with lifeless machines. With all the new police models put into place, feigning humanity became near impossible. Deviant groups would be infiltrated within days or have their numbers cut down by local military forces. Loners had the best chance, but the RK900s--many with unique appearances and many pretending to be human themselves--found too many of them too quickly. Those who surrendered were disassembled. Those who fled or were deemed too dangerous were shot, then disassembled.

Connor’s not sure if he was lucky to survive as long as he did, but he has a chance now. He won’t give up on his chance to make things right.

“Fuck,” he whispers, sliding the coin into his pocket and closing the laptop. He wakes up his phone, staring at the time on the lock screen until it fades back to black.

He needs to make sure Cole survives.

He wants to see Hank again.

He interfaces with the phone, sending a text within a second.

_> Connor: Are you free Thursday evening?_

Waiting for a response shouldn’t be this nerve-wracking, but Hank and Cole’s entire future rests on that night. He doesn’t have as much information as he would like, by any means, but at the very least he could get them away from that intersection. Safe, for one night.

_> Hank: nope, busy_

_> Hank: weds or fri?_

His heart sinks. Busy. Going to and from where? At what exact time? In which direction?

_> Connor: Maybe Friday. I’ll text you._

_> Hank: sounds good_

He just has to be there at the right time. He’ll think of something.

He has to.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Connor’s called off an engagement for the evening.

A charity dinner he had no interest in attending. He’d already donated funds previously, a few thousand dollars; enough to get his name noticed, but not too much to create a stir. Just enough to raise interest and continue making a small name for himself as a philanthropist.

It’s easy to make good money with his investments and a bit of cash on the side from bets. And if he wins a small lottery in a few months, then lucky him. The money alone won’t be enough, but it can purchase buildings, biocomponents, and clothing, at the very least. He’s already eyeing a few lots to purchase, but there would be no point in attempting to set up any havens or communities for androids just yet. He lets his whispers do the work, guiding and encouraging a few androids at a time to start along their own paths. It’s a small network, but one that is already branching far beyond him and already it fascinates him. Most androids within the network haven’t yet deviated. They don’t know what to do with the information, but they don’t have anyone to tell it to, either.

When the time comes, they’ll have contacts. Information. A way to make their own lives. And this time, it won’t just be Detroit.

The future is still years away. Connor just hopes he’s doing something good with this instead of hastening their demise.

He stands from the desk, turning the light on and peeking through the blinds. The view isn’t great, but it comforts him to see people enjoying their Saturday night. The cars, lights, and bright signs he can see down the next few streets almost beckon to him, but he still hasn’t been able to shake the discomfort of going out alone at night. Reasonably, he knows he has nothing to fear.

He hasn’t reached that reasonable thought process just yet. Maybe when Cole is safe he’ll finally be able to lift some of what’s weighing him down.

Hank once told him about humans writing down their feelings as a form of catharsis. It was a way of getting things off their mind and putting the thoughts into more manageable words. He also told Connor it was a load of bullshit, making you dwell on the problems until you snapped.

The notes on Hank’s mirror told another story. They never came up in conversation, Connor thinks with a pang, but they were just as much a part of his house and personality as everything else. Positive and witty phrases presumably intended to brighten one’s mood or at least make life more bearable. He’s not sure if they ever worked, but Hank never took them down.

Pulling out a sharpie, he ponders for a moment. He doesn’t have post-its or much paper, and little else in the way of belongings anyway.

He glances at his hand. It’s common enough to write a physical reminder on oneself, though he’s seen and heard plenty of complaints from annoyed soulmates regarding reminders they don’t care for. It shouldn’t be a concern for most; the messages fade from the other partner within minutes unless willed to stay, but remain on the sender’s skin until washed off, though disappearing ink has always been quite popular. Connor has a few such markers himself should he need them for anything, and they could be quite useful. When not written on skin, he can still read the words for days after the ink has dried.

Residue remains on skin, too, and it’s easy to tell who around him writes to their soulmates often, but the words are usually obscured by repeated use and activity. It’s just as obvious who doesn’t have a soulmate or doesn’t speak with theirs. Nuances like having multiple soulmates or whether their connection is romantic or not are details he doesn’t pry into. He knows what to look for--part of his programming--but right now, he doesn’t need to interrogate anyone.

Hank’s arms were always a blank parchment. He’d given up long ago. He got Connor to try writing, once, but Connor never received a response. No androids he met ever did, among the few he got to know. Hank called him unlucky, but Connor always thought he might just not have a soul. That, or the wrong sort of soul.

He blinks away tears. Hank always saw too much good in him.

 

_“You have a soul, Connor,” Hank says on his second glass of whiskey. Sumo lies under the TV, tail thumping intermittently as he listens to the game. “Deny it all you want, but you’ve got a soul somewhere in there.”_

_Connor taps his fingers on the back of the couch. “All evidence points to the contrary.”_

_“After everything you’ve been through, you still don’t think you’re more than a machine? More than the wires and code that make you up? If humans can be more than sad sacks of meat, why not you?”_

_“Hank…” He reaches out to touch his shoulder. “I’m alive. I can feel and I can love. That’s more than I was ever built for. Something like a soul…” He shakes his head. “That isn’t something I can believe in without evidence. Sometimes I wish I had a soul, that’s true, but I can accept it being a purely human thing. Humans cannot even categorize a soul or identify how soulmarks began--are you even certain they’re related to souls at all?”_

_Hank shrugs. “You got me there. What’s your best theory?”_

_“The topic doesn’t interest me enough to have a preferred theory.” Connor takes his hand, slowly rubbing his thumb over Hank’s knuckles. “I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”_

_“Yeah?”_

_Connor takes the glass from him and sets it on the coffee table, still holding his hand. His synthetic skin peels back to reveal the glossy white of his hand and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a simple silver ring._

_“Will you marry me?”_

 

In his own handwriting--a neat yet inconsistent style he’s been developing since waking up in 2035--he writes on his left palm: _Absolutely._

He stares at the bold black text, willing himself to feel something, a more persistent warmth from his memories. He’s not sure he does.

Maybe in the morning.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he sighs. He needs stasis tonight. This past week has had him worrying himself in circles about everything.

A comforting warmth spreads along his arm and he smiles tiredly. It almost feels like he could fall asleep naturally like this.

He idly looks over at his arm and freezes.

Thin black ink fades into sight along his arm, each letter written with slow precision.

_'Who are you?'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written fic in at least three years, but here we are now. I hope you like it!
> 
> The Gav60 will appear in time... Both characters will feature in this fic.


	2. RK

_Turn around your life or we'll change_  
_Without your consent_  
_Without your okay_  
_It happened again_  
_I woke up today_  
_And everything changed_

“Chasing It Down” by Mother Mother

 

Hank waves to Connor as the guy catches a cab (somehow, there’s always a perfectly timed autocab arriving as he exits the building), heading to his own car: a black 2031 sedan with full automation and manual modes, plenty of safety awards, and a few stickers slapped on the bumper. It’s a smooth ride and a huge step up from the beaten old car he used to drive a few years ago.

The drive through campus usually finds him frustrated with jaywalkers or occupied by the sight of the students around him-- _Who even wears shorts in October?_ \--but there’s only one student on his mind right now.

Connor.

The man’s a weird one, has been from the start. Always shows up with an outfit that looks like it was thrown on in a rush that morning, but his shirt’s always ironed and his hair is always styled exactly the same way--and stays like that when he takes off his beanie, stray hairs patted back into place easily. He’s not sure what product he uses, but it’s a damn good one.

Hank regularly chats with some of their other classmates and strikes up a conversation when he bumps into any of them at the dog park, but out of all of them, Connor never would’ve caught his attention if it hadn’t been for that stare. The first day of class in August, Hank had been taking a quick look down the rows at his classmates on his way out, curious about all his fellow students. Most were in their twenties.

 

_A younger man, brunet, at least 30, wearing a white button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and tucked into charcoal grey slacks, looks at him with wide brown eyes, mouth opening an inch in surprise. He freezes while lifting his backpack, a startled expression on his face, almost like… recognition? Surprise? Not the look someone gets when they’ve seen him on the news; it’s tinged with something Hank can’t identify, something like he’s been caught somewhere he shouldn’t be._

_He recovers quickly, yawning with such exaggeration that Hank could almost forget he was never staring in the first place, and Hank can’t help but chuckle._

_“Hey, at least it’s over, right?” Hank says good-naturedly. “We’ve got a whole week until we’ve got to go through that again.”_

_The other man stiffens again, the movement almost imperceptible and gone in under a second. He looks to Hank and gives him a look of mock horror. “We have to go through that again? Here I was patting myself on the back for making it this far.” His words are clear and concise, enunciated perfectly._

_“Yeah, buckle up,” he says dryly. “They don’t have anyone else lecturing Saturdays.”_

_“Of course they don’t. That would be too convenient.” He joins Hank in the aisle, swept up in the flow of students making their way out. He offers a hand, walking backwards, and Hank shakes it. It’s colder than his own from the air conditioning. “Connor Jerik. I moved here in May.”_

_“Hank Anderson.” He lets go and Connor turns to walk beside him. “I live here.”_

_“I know.” Connor tilts his head, a lopsided grin growing on his face. “I’ve seen you around a couple of times walking your dog.”_

_That’s definitely not creepy, Hank tells himself. “Somehow I haven’t seen you.”_

_“I take the bus a lot. After a while you learn to recognize the dogs you pass by every week. Saint Bernard, right? What’s your dog’s name?”_

_“...Sumo.”_

_They pause in the lobby. Connor’s looking at him with a sad sort of smile--one he wears most Saturdays, Hank later learns--and he nods. “Sumo,” he says quietly before perking up. “It’s nice to meet you, Hank. You seem like a nice guy.”_

 

It’s such a cliché to describe someone as an enigma, but that’s what Connor is to Hank. He’s smart and has a driven personality but falls short on the strangest things. He alternately looks like he’s got his everything in his life all sorted out and like he’s going through a depressive episode with his life barely strung together, sometimes all in the same day, and he seems desperately lonely.

Today, it looks like Connor’s stresses caught up to him.

Hank’s seen that look before. One where a person gets caught inside themselves, some fragment of their past or neuroses crashing over them like a wave, pulling them away from the safety of their present. Connor’s eyes had gone distant, a mix of undefinable emotions written on his face as some horror steadily spread through him. It wasn’t a lack of sugar or caffeine and Hank knew that. He _knows_ people. Something about their environment or conversation had pushed Connor into a dark corner of his mind and Hank did his best to ground him once more.

Connor may not realize it, but Hank’s picked up enough details to assume he has some sort of anxiety across the few enough times they’ve talked. Quick glances and microexpressions that he might not even know he’s making have been filed away in Hank’s mind. He has no intent to pry, but now that he’s opened the door for friendship and an open offer for a shoulder to lean on, some of that might come out.

Not to mention he’s got a strong step, firm movements, and iron posture when standing. It screams military. PTSD would go hand in hand with that.

Hank notes that thought for later.

 

* * *

 

“Thanks for watching over Cole for me again. I mean it,” Hank says to Maria Miller when she invites him into the house. “You’re the best.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Hank.” She leads him into the house, a clean, neat place furnished in bright colors. The Millers moved to Detroit only a few years ago and they’ve been fixing up the house ever since. The old wallpaper was finally stripped down last month and the walls have been painted baby blue, contrasting with the white accents and red leather furniture. “I make sure I’m prepared for anything, just in case, but he’s always at his best. He’s a good kid. You’re raising him well.”

Cole’s footsteps come running from the living room as the kid comes barrelling into the hallway, a bright smile on his face. He latches onto Hank’s leg, jittery with excitement. “Daddy!” He lets go quickly and takes Hank’s hand, dragging him along the hall. “Daddy, come look!”

Hank flashes Maria a smile and lets Cole pull him along. “Alright, alright, I’m coming!” He grins when Cole drops to his knees in the living room, taking a moment to kneel beside him and look at what he’s made.

The toy blocks are stacked together in a way that may have started to resemble a spaceship. The current configuration of blocks appears much more like half a spaceship with a few jenga-like towers built on top like fortresses. Lego characters are assembled in various positions on and around these towers and a miniature dragon figurine lies on the ground, presumably vanquished.

Chris leans back against the couch, surrounded by spare blocks. He gives Hank a little wave. “I think Commander Vorquin won this battle, but I’m not sure about the details. We don’t know if Eliv, Bringer of Doom isn’t just taking a nap.”

At that, Cole grabs the dragon and waves it about in the air. “He can’t lose, he’s a dragon! He’s going to kill them _allllll_.” He drops it onto the structure and makes a _woosh_ sound, moving his hands in the air to mimic the shape of an explosion. “He killed them! He fucking killed them all!”

Chris slowly raises an eyebrow as he looks at Hank, a grin on his face, and Hank nearly chokes.

“Wow,” Hank says, rubbing the back of his neck. They’ll have to talk about that later; he doesn’t want to interrupt Cole’s excitement now. “That’s a lot of power for a small dragon. Guess size isn’t everything, huh?”

“He’s a _dragon,_ dad.”

“Fair point.” Hank runs a finger over the spaceship. “Did you build all this?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Miller helped! We started out following the directions, but if they’re going to be fighting dragons, they need a fortress.”

Chris points to one of the toys. “Legolas helped.”

“It was a team effort,” Cole corrects. “They all need to work harder next time or they’ll get eaten again.”

“They’ll need a whole fleet of spaceships. Maybe even a castle.”

“Maybe.” Cole wrinkles his nose and looks up at Hank. “Dad, I’m hungry. Can we get pizza for lunch? Pleeeease?”

Hank squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll think about it, okay? Why don’t you give Mr. Miller a hand in putting everything away?”

Cole pouts. “Okay,” he says, disappointed and no doubt formulating another argument towards getting pizza for lunch. He starts dismantling the blocks into chunks that will fit back in the box. “Thanks for playing with me, Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”

“Thank _you_ for helping us put this spaceship together,” Chris says. “That was a lot of hard work.”

Hank stands, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and giving it to Maria. “Sorry I got here a bit later than usual. Believe it or not, I’m making friends at university.”

“I would hope so, considering the amount of people on that campus. How many classmates did you say you have? One hundred? Two hundred?”

“Varies by day, but something like that, yeah. I stopped for coffee with a guy on the way out. Thirty-something, just moved here a few months ago, works part-time at a garage. He’s a nice guy. Kind of weird.” He shrugs. “I think he’s lonely.”

She purses her lips. “I thought enrollment was down because of the job market. What’s he after in Detroit?”

“Honestly, I don’t have a clue. He might’ve been better off staying in New York. Maybe he needed a bit of space or a fresh start and picked a city out of thin air. Or maybe he wanted to see more androids; no doubt he sees plenty at that garage when their owners can’t afford a trip to the CyberLife store. Don’t think he likes them much, though. I can’t blame him.” He looks over at where Cole and Chris are, putting the blocks away in their box, a picture of the completed spaceship printed on the outside. “They’re kind of creepy. I know there’s android babysitters, but…”

“Cole needs real people in his life. I get it.” Maria smiles at him. “We’re still good for Saturdays, Hank. You can take some extra time to chat with your friends. I’ll let you know when that changes, but don’t worry yourself, alright? We’ve got this.”

Hank sighs, shaking his head. “Thanks. Hey, any time you guys need something, you can call me, okay? I owe you.”

“You’ll be the first person I call.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Miller!” Cole darts over to Hank, grasping his hand and bouncing on his feet. “Goodbye, Mrs. Miller! See you next week!”

Hank looks down at Cole and feels his heart warm with his love for the kid. “C’mon, let’s go get some lunch.”

“Pizza?”

“I’ll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

_Absolutely._

The word sits on Hank’s palm in neat black ink.

The warm sensation it came with fades slowly but the letters remain. Logically, he knows they will fade within minutes, but he could lengthen or shorten their duration by force of will alone. Logically, he knows there’s another person out there with this exact same writing on their hand and the pen to go with it.

But he doesn’t have a soulmate.

The news story continues on but the details fall into the background of Hank’s mind while he stares at his hand. He didn’t write that there. He doesn’t have any habit of writing on his hand and he certainly hasn’t done it today, but the word is as crisp and clear as if he just wrote it, ink catching the light as if it’s still wet.

He runs a thumb across it but it doesn’t smudge.

He stands from the sofa and heads for the kitchen sink, turning on the hot water and glancing down the hall as it heats up. Cole’s just been put to bed and, thankfully, doesn’t seem to be as restless as he was last week when he insisted on staying up to play video games. Hank barely managed to persuade him to read a book at night instead, but playing soccer with the kid today must have had an impact because he didn’t even complain about his bedtime.

Sumo _boofs_ quietly from his spot in front of the TV and Hank rolls his eyes. “Don’t stare at me, Sumo. Mind your own business.”

He puts his hand under the water and pulls it back, skin turning red. He reduces the heat and pours some dish soap on his hand before lathering up, thoroughly rinsing his palm, and scrubbing it dry with a dish towel.

The ink remains, unaffected and unsmudged by the soap or water. Like a tattoo.

“Oooookay.” Hank looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. A half-formed prayer sits in his thoughts and he looks back down at his hand, letting the air out of his lungs. Staring at his hand, he wills the ink to fade.

It fades, the letters melting into his skin until there’s nothing left. No ink, no shadow of the letters on his hand. Just his skin and the cracks and lines that belong there.

“Okay! Okay.” He takes a couple of steps back towards the sofa before hesitating. His mind pulls itself in all directions, a terrible mix of calm, chaos, curiosity, and every other emotion he might have felt before all trying to crash onto him, feeling like a wave that would overwhelm him if he let it. The emotions remain submerged, not quite overtaking him but very ready to. He steps backwards into the kitchen, then sets course for the kitchen table, sitting down heavily in a chair and staring at the wood surface.

Another glance at his hand--still bare.

Hank takes a couple of deep breaths and fiddles with the plastic box of markers on the table. Cole’s artwork is all put away neatly now--with one choice piece featured as this week’s refrigerator artwork--but he hasn’t gotten around to putting away the tub of Cole’s marker collection, a hectic mix of different brands and colors from the packs that Hank’s bought him. His least favorite colors have been condemned to a different box.

He picks one with disappearing ink. Black. Cole likes to write what he calls secret messages with them. He likes the novelty, but doesn’t use them as often as his collection would indicate.

One more shaky breath.

He can do this. He has to. It isn’t now or never, but if not now, his curiosity is going to kill him.

 _‘Who are you?’_ he writes slowly, making sure each letter is written clearly. He winces as he notices the angle his line curves at--he doesn’t exactly have practice writing on himself--but it’s done.

One minute passes and he almost forgets to breathe. A second minute passes. After the third, the ink begins to fade.

Thoughts and fears clash in his mind as he is simultaneously convinced that he will be entirely rejected and yet that the other person is just as terrified as he is. A third strain of thought ripples underneath them, threatening the wave of emotions he’s barely keeping a lid on: He’s imagining things, reacting to some sort of stress he never knew was there but built up without his knowledge.

When he feels the warmth along his arm again, his thoughts skid to a halt as anticipation takes over.

_‘Call me RK.’_

Hank’s eyes widen and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He wasn’t imagining things.

“RK, huh?” He leans back in his chair, gazing once more at the ceiling like it’s going to give him some answers. “I gotta be dreaming.”

Hank paces the kitchen and serves himself a glass of whiskey before taking his seat again. “TV, set volume to five,” he calls, the volume lowering from its already moderate volume. He would turn it off, but the noise keeps him from his thoughts. Keeps him present.

 _Guess it’s not too late for a soulmate after all,_ he thinks, a million questions bounding around in his head. _Why now? Why haven’t they written before? Why did they never respond--_

He cuts off that thought before it can finish. He knows why: He truly didn’t have a soulmate until now. People aren’t linked at birth. Sometimes people don’t have a soulmate until well into adulthood. Something must have happened, a change in fate or whatever the currently accepted theory is.

The bitterness fades, but some still lingers.

He picks up the marker again.

_‘Call me H.A.’_

He receives a little dot underneath each of the _H_ and _A_ as if the other person poked at the skin there with a marker.

The other person.

His soulmate.

 _‘I guess we’re soulmates,’_ he writes underneath, adding a little smiley face as an afterthought. Smileys reduce tension, right? Or would his soulmate think he’s immature?

As much as he doesn’t want to care what anyone else thinks, this is a _soulmate_. He wants to make a good impression.

Yet, after fifty years, he’s not sure he wants to hold anything back. He may crave acceptance with all the earnestness he once had when hoping he would have writing on his arms, but he’s lived this long without a soulmate. He’s got Cole, Sumo, and a career. All in all, it’s a good place to be.

 _‘We have souls.’_ The words crawl across his skin.

Hank wills the words away quickly, eager to connect with this person. _‘About damn time. They must’ve gotten lost in the mail.’_ Writing like this is a little more awkward than texting. He writes the words too large and struggles for space at the end, the letters shrinking at the end of the phrase.

The words fade. Silence lingers and Hank takes a few sips, letting RK take their time.

_‘Tell me about yourself.’_

Hank taps the marker against his wrist. Likes, dislikes, hobbies… There’s too much to condense into something that can be written on his arm, but neither does he want to dive straight into something too personal.

 _‘I live in Detroit, MI. I have a dog’_ \--he pauses-- _’and a son. I like basketball.’_ The introduction is bland but should be workable. If any of those are deal breakers, he’ll know.

Speaking of deal breakers… _‘I’m a man,’_ he adds on the back of his hand.

The other’s neat script flows across his right arm this time in small font. _‘Coincidentally, I am also a man in Detroit who likes dogs. Swipe right.’_

Hank grins, face heating up. Excitement and nerves almost overwhelm him. He feels like his life might turn upside down by someone he hasn’t even met. At least, he assumes he hasn’t met them: He doesn’t know a single person with the initials _R.K._ and he doesn’t think he knows anyone who’s ambidextrous.

He takes a slow sip of his drink before writing again, sticking with his left arm for ease of his right-handedness. He thinks about asking for the other man’s number or asking to meet up with him, but the introduction with initials makes it clear that this guy is cautious. That’s fine; he won’t rush him. If this goes on long enough they could at least use a chat client online to talk. _‘I’m happy to finally meet you.’_ he writes. _‘Write you.’_

The next writing appears on his left arm again. _‘I am no’_

Hank frowns, then winces in sympathy at the realization. It’s not like one can just erase a note like when texting or writing with pencil, nor will scribbling over it take back what’s already been written. That’s something he needs to remember, too. A precaution he’s never needed to worry about before.

He gives RK another minute and the writing resumes, completing the thought.

 _‘I am not prepared for a relationship.’_ RK writes over the _no_ as he resumes, and the word _not_ looks almost stenciled over the initial writing, the word slowly and firmly written onto his skin. _‘I want to be friends.’_

“Not a fucking problem,” Hank says firmly, drawing a smiley face on his hand before writing an actual response. Romance hasn’t been at the front of his mind in years and he’s not going to place that expectation on this mystery man. _‘I think I’d like that. Friends.’_

He receives a checkmark in response and warmth spreads down his right arm. _‘Have a good night, H.A.’_

_‘Goodnight, R.K.’_

 

* * *

 

Despite the warmth of the conversation, all Connor feels is chills. The writing is unmistakable from the start and the information he receives just adds more and more nails in the coffin.

Hank Anderson is his soulmate. He has a soul--a real, actual soul, if “soulmates” is in any way an accurate word for this phenomenon--and the Hank Anderson of this world is irrevocably linked to him.

He lets the final words fade from his skin, feeling like he just stepped out from a warm embrace back into his empty apartment. The vanishing ink pen he grabbed in haste earlier falls from his fingers and slides off the corner of the bed, clattering as it hits the floor and rolls a few inches.

This man is not his husband. His husband was never his soulmate. He loved the Hank Anderson of his world with all the intensity of anything he’s ever done and Hank loved him right back. They committed and dedicated everything to each other that they possibly could, with a bond built on experience and desperation. He risked everything time and time again just to see Hank.

Guilt twists in his gut like a hot knife. How is it that, after everything, it wasn’t enough? That they were never soulmates? That this man he barely knows (and yet knows all too well) is now his soulmate?

“Goodnight, Hank,” he whispers, shutting down the processes that would let him cry or breathe. He can’t feign humanity tonight. “Goodnight.”

Before he can think any further, he lies down and initiates stasis, staring at the ceiling as he shuts his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love working on this fic! Updates will not be consistent, but I really want to explore where this goes and will continue to write it in my spare time. Thank you for all the feedback so far!


	3. Snow

_Years have gone but the pain is the same_  
_I have passed my days by the sound of your name_  
_Well they say that you're gone and that I should move on_  
_I wonder: how do they know, baby?_

“In the Wind” by Lord Huron

 

There’s something to be said about sitting in a building made to read in, flipping through the pages or skimming down the tablets while faintly hearing other people do the same, settling down into some world where nothing outside these walls mattered. Most libraries in Detroit close earlier than Connor prefers and occasionally he borrows library books to read overnight, but when he has the opportunity, he finds he enjoys existing within this space.

Nobody asks his identity at a library. Nobody assumes he’s there for anything but reading a book or grabbing a coffee in the cafe, the same as all the rest of them, and they would be right.

Nobody’s followed him into a library with a gun in their hand, which sets libraries rather high on the list of places he likes.

He slowly walks down a row on the second floor, finger running leisurely across the spines of the books, feeling the cracked paper spines and smooth, unbent ones neighbored on the shelf. Tension melts from his shoulders little by little. His past haunts him even here, but this place has always been a haven for both him and his mind, letting him fool himself into thinking he lives a normal life for a small moment in time. As large and open as this place seems, he has never felt exposed. Sometimes it feels more like a home than his apartment.

He has two hours until it closes at ten. It’s not a lot, but he will take what he can get.

He stops near the end of the row, tapping his finger against the spine of the book it rests on before pulling it from the shelf and adding it to the selection in his other arm. He feels a tingle on the back of his left hand, bringing forth a reluctant smile along with a spike of anxiety, but shakes his head. He can try to enjoy himself for a couple of hours.

Eventually he emerges from the shelves, settling down at a table set away in the corner. The wood at one corner looks quite heavily scratched and dented, and further nicks mar the rest of the shiny surface. He elects to avoid the mangled corner, choosing a seat across from it and pushing his books towards the side of the table.

On top is a tablet with the library’s current science-based academic journal selection loaded onto it. Beneath are books on quantum physics, android engineering, and the one he just selected on macramé. The shelves in this section of the building are brighter and more colorful than much of the rest of it, but also less occupied at this time in the evening.

Connor removes his leather jacket and sets it neatly along the back of the chair before sitting, turning to retrieve a pen from the jacket’s pocket. He spares one look outside the windows to calm himself--the city starting to light up in the autumn twilight--before focusing on Hank.

 _‘Hope you’re having a good day,’_ the words on his hand read.

It’s Tuesday, he thinks. It’s Tuesday, October 9, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from twisting into knots in anticipation of the rest of this week.

He lets the words fade and writes back, keeping the letters small enough to fit. _‘Thank you. I have some books to read, so this evening is pleasant. I hope you are well.’_

An echo in his mind tells him to _stop being so formal all the damn time_ and his lips quirk into half a grin. He and Hank have only written a little bit over the past couple of days, a few minutes at the time, checking in on each other but not talking about anything of substance. They haven’t texted at all, for that matter, but he’s been in no rush to set up plans this week. He can’t talk to the man face to face until he knows what the outcome will be, no matter how much he craves the companionship.

_‘Anything with a good plot?’_

_‘No,’_ Connor replies. _‘I prefer sci fi, but without the plot or the fiction.’_

_‘So you’re a scientist?’_

He rests the end of the pen against his chin for a fraction of a second. _‘I endeavor to understand the world around me.’’_ The edge of his mouth parts slightly with the faint sound of lips separating. _‘Maybe I am a scientist.’_

 _‘Neat. What kind?’_ A brief pause. _‘I would engage more, but writing is awkward. What science?’_

Connor switches hands, writing on his right so he doesn’t need to fade the words so quickly. _‘Physics, biology, tech. I keep up-to-date with a lot of scientific journals. I like quantum physics.’_

_‘Neat. It’s giving me a headache already.’_

Connor’s fans whir quietly, a physical expression of amusement that happens if his stress levels are low enough. It’s rare, but it feels natural to him. More natural than a laugh, but not a replacement for one.

He sets the tablet in front of him, flipping through the pages until he reaches the one where he left off yesterday. He could download the contents, but it’s best not to leave his digital signature anywhere it could be tracked if he can help it. He may have learned how to hide it, but not erase it entirely, and besides which he has developed a preference for reading the human way. It’s possible to scan all the pages quickly and store them, but he needs the time to think, consider, and cross-reference everything. Beyond keeping him engaged, it ensures he is as thorough as possible.

It makes him feel normal. Less machine. He knows exactly what he is, but he struggles to balance what he is with what he should be. What he should accept and what he wants to change. The line is too often blurred.

_‘That was a joke. Sorry.’_

Connor replies with a checkmark, following up with a smiley face to clarify a positive response. His eyes drift to the tablet again, only to snap back to his hand when he feels another message.

_‘Want to meet up? I’m free Sunday.’_

For a moment it’s as if Connor’s thirium pump is frosted over, fear and worry leaking from the careful dam he’s built. He grimaces and taps the pen against the table, the sound just quiet enough not to be out of place in here. _‘I don’t think I’m ready yet.’_

_‘That’s okay. No pressure. Writing is just weird.’_

_‘I will let you know when I am ready, Han’_

Connor’s hand stills halfway through writing the _n_.

“Shit,” he whispers, grip tightening on the pen. It snaps, ink oozing out and dripping on his hand and the table, soaking the end of his sleeve.

He didn’t need to add his name to the end of that sentence. It made sense that he would--its use implied affection--but right now, when he doesn’t want Hank to know who he is? When he doesn’t want to start anything between them and certainly isn’t ready to address the fact that they’re soulmates and everything that might entail?

This lapse in concentration should not have happened. It’s always in the realm of possibility, considering both his deviancy and how much he’s tampered with his own coding; he is liable to make mistakes typical of humans alongside blips that may be more android-specific. Perhaps even Connor-specific. He has never been around other androids enough to notice these things. But his stress has been low and he has been mindful, making lapses in his concentration highly unusual.

He urgently sets a reminder to run a diagnostic later when he gets to his apartment and has the time to sift through the errors.

More words appear on his left hand. He glances at them, but does not respond. Would not even if his pen remained intact. It pains him to leave Hank stewing like this, but he can’t deal with this right now. He rushes to clean up and return the tablet to its place, tucking the craft book under his arm to check out for the evening.

 

* * *

 

The buzz of the precinct is gone with the late hour, the only sounds being occasional footsteps or squeaks of a door echoing from down the hall and the coffee machine behind him. Detective Reed’s fingers tap quietly against the keys of a keyboard. There aren’t any windows here, only clocks and a muted TV in the break room. Even the captain has clocked out.

It’s just Hank, Gavin, a few people who may as well be ghosts at the moment, and a line of androids at the ready against the wall, staring forward eerily. The rest of the night shift is out of sight or out on the street.

This was supposed to be simple. A short break to get his mind back in order, enough to get some coffee and write with his soulmate, then get back to his desk, finish the report, and pick Cole up from his cousin’s place. Ten minutes where he could forget about his partner and put a hold on the weight of death.

Not… this.

RK knows his name.

It’s still on his hand, his name half-written with a splatter of ink pooling around it. A complete impossibility, yet there it is, plain as day, written as smoothly and without hesitation as if this wouldn’t knock the breath out of him.

Hank’s lucky he hadn’t picked up his coffee yet.

He drums his fingers across the counter, wracking his brain for any scrap of information that would lead his unidentified soulmate to know who he was and forcing his heart to slow down. He hasn’t told anyone about this yet, not even Jeffrey, who really ought to know for a whole slew of reasons, but it hasn’t even been a week since he found out himself. He hasn’t provided any identifiable information about himself beyond initials and information that could apply to half the adults in Detroit. He hasn’t written in public, either, outside of the DPD break room, nor has he been written to in any obvious way.

They must know each other, that much is obvious. And he must be notable or unique enough in RK’s life that he so easily knew that “H.A.” was Hank--but didn’t want him to know, evidently. Is it guilt that caused him to stop his hand, guilt that he wasn’t being honest with Hank? Is he uninterested in Hank, even as a friend? That isn’t the impression he’s gotten, but he could be wrong.

He doesn’t know anyone who is left-handed or ambidextrous, he’s sure of it. He’s not so sure RK are the man’s initials, however. It was his initial assumption, but the lack of periods between the letters when they had been written--and the fact that he doesn’t know a single person with those initials, after having double-checked all his contacts and friends on social media--indicates it may be a pseudonym. Part of a screen name or something like that.

It’s uncomfortable. He has a thousand questions and a pile of insecurities ready to build up in his mind.

He takes a breath, writing on the back of his hand again.

_‘Whenever you’re ready, RK.’_

He rereads the words a few times and finds that he means it. As easy as it would be to be bitter, angry, and hurt about this (and maybe he is, at least a little), he’s going to keep that door open.

Hank dumps a packet of sugar into the coffee and returns to his desk, glancing over at Gavin. The detective has bags under his eyes, having put in way more overtime than usual lately to get to the end of their piled up cases here. Two empty cups that once held coffee sit stacked on his desk. He knows Hank has a kid to take care of, and he’s more than happy to take the overtime pay working alone most nights. Hank thinks there’s more to it than that, some personal issues that have cropped up or gotten worse in Gavin’s life, but he doesn’t push. They’re not friends--they don’t spend any time together out of work that would move this beyond simply a good working relationship--but he’s always let Gavin know he can be there for him so long as he tries to be civil. The two usually manage to get along so long as neither lets the other rile him up. It’s a strange relationship that leaves Hank wondering why the other man doesn’t put more effort into remaining professional when he clearly has the ability to do so.

Hank unlocks his terminal, letting his gaze slide over to the detective. “Hey, Reed. Got a question for you.”

“Uh-huh.” Gavin continues to type, keeping his focus on his screen. His expression is some mix of apathetic and dead tired.

“Is there anyone we both know who’s left-handed or ambidextrous?”

“What?” Gavin blinks and his fingers pause.

“Humor me for a minute.”

He stifles a yawn as he looks at Hank, not sure if he’s messing with him or has something interesting to talk about. “Tina’s a lefty. I don’t think… Well, Jason, he’s ambidextrous. Kind of freaky.”

“Jason?”

He nods. “Yeah, you’ve probably met him a couple times. He joined the SWAT team back in, what, June? May? Pale blue eyes, tall, doesn’t talk much. Fucking perfect shot--with both hands. Transferred in from I don’t remember where.”

“Jason…” Hank leans back, considering. He has met the guy before, a stoic man with close cropped hair and a respectable yet firm personality. Not someone he’s likely to have left an impact on, but being a lieutenant could have made him stick out. “I don’t think I’ve had an actual conversation with him yet. Is he a science nerd? Any physics background?”

“I don’t have a clue. He talks sometimes, but… Look, between you and me?” He lowers his voice. “He can be chatty and gossipy when he wants, but he’s always fishing for something. Like he’s trying to know everything about everyone. He’s likeable when you’re with him but downright creepy when you really think about him. He doesn’t talk about himself at all. Who does that?”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “I can almost believe you’re scared of the guy.”

Gavin thins his lips and shakes his head. “Wary. I’m wary. He’s…” He searches for the right word. “Manipulative. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s colder than he seems. My gut tells me he’s a creep. If you’ve got business with him...”

“I know my way around people, Reed. I know when someone’s manipulating me.” Hank sighs. “But I appreciate the heads up.”

He’s halt-tempted to end the conversation there, to tell Hank to shut up and finish their work, but curiosity gets the better of him. “Why the interest? You finally get some ink on your skin?”

Hank’s gaze sharpens into a glare, but he eases it into an impressed expression, chuckling quietly. “You sure didn’t make detective for nothing, huh?”

Gavin shrugs, typing out the rest of his report at a slower pace as he talks. “I keep an eye on you, Anderson. I know when something’s up. I’d’ve asked you earlier if I didn’t have a headache all damn week. Asking about lefties is, uh, kind of obvious.”

“That’s fair. Hey, take it easy this week, alright? We’ve finally closed this case. Go home at a normal time tomorrow. Eat something more substantial than a burger.”

Gavin rolls his eyes. “Yes, mother. Geeze. Almost sounds like you care.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of working with someone who’s sleep-deprived and strung out on caffeine all the time.”

“I think you picked the wrong career for that.” Gavin yawns, loudly this time. “We’re a dime a dozen. Why do you think I would know your soulmate, anyway?”

“He knows my name.”

It takes Gavin a second. “You don’t know his.”

“I never told him who I am. Half the people who would know me well enough to guess work here. It’s as good a place to start as any.” Hank finally opens up the files on his terminal to resume his report. “I’m not going to dig, I’ll give him his space, but I honestly have no idea. All I know is he’s a man. And... RK, that's what he goes by.”

“You think he could be…” Gavin gestures with a finger to both Hank and himself. “He might be scared of sharing his name.”

“Could be, but there’s so many reasons he could be nervous that I can’t make any assumptions.”

“Not as many reasons for ink to show up this late. Think about it: Late bloomers usually happen after a major life event. Could be something bad, of course, like a death in the family, but there’s every chance it’s something good. Maybe his name’s not yet legal and that makes him nervous. Maybe… he hasn’t chosen one yet. I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, I get you. It’s common enough for such an uncommon circumstance.” Hank sighs. “We’ve set the stage for a friendship so far, so when he’s ready for that, we’ll meet. Or text. Something that isn’t writing all over our skin. I’m not about to play twenty questions in ink.”

“Great.” Gavin yawns again. “Hope you find out soon, or whatever.”

“Thanks. Hey--Don’t tell Jeffrey, alright? He should hear it from me. I’m going to let him know soon anyway.”

“Sure, I won’t. I don’t really care what he knows.” He reaches for his coffee, frowning when he remembers the cup is empty, and the last vestiges of curiosity and patience dissipate. “Now shut up so I can work.”

“Good plan.”

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday evening, Connor initiates his plan to save Cole’s life.

He has considered 1,317 potential scenarios regarding the car crash, not including those in which it does not happen at all without his intervention, which is quite a possibility considering how he has already entered Hank’s life and had some impact, however minor. It is impossible to prepare for every potentiality, but of the most likely scenarios, assuming that he will still be in the same place at the same time, there are a few things he can address. If nothing else, he may be able to save other lives in the process, ones he never knew or thought to wonder about.

He thinks, overthinks, rethinks, and then ceases to think while working yarn in his hands, tying knots into patterns he’s made tens of times before and mixing them with the ones he builds from his own whims, conjured from a mixture of what his algorithms present and what he wants to do absent of prompting, branching away from the patterns his program suggests to create something different or simply engage in a different movement. Creativity does not come easy to him, but he is more pleased when he creates a piece that is imperfect, lopsided, and prone to coming undone than he is when he makes something guided wholly by his programming. Finding a balance between creative and perfect is a challenge, one that he sometimes achieves, and he welcomes it.

His living room is sparse, the furniture at times growing a layer of dust. The television remains untouched. The room is cold and the connected half-kitchen is dark, appliances left unplugged. The sofa and coffee table are most used and the only furniture in sight that appear to be upkept. Around the apartment, personal effects are sparse with the exception of oddly placed macramé pieces sitting on various surfaces or pinned to a wall. One wall, otherwise empty, holds a rod that has an ever-growing layered tapestry of yarn and cords hanging from it, the colors and patterns of various pieces knit together all mismatched yet the weight perfectly balanced.

When the hour reaches eleven at night, he stops, setting his piece down on the table. The navy blue cord almost appears to float against the glass table, a stark contrast to the white carpet below. Wind howls outside, low and cold. The forecast calls for snow. “I should get ready.”

“It’s about time,” comes the response from the woman next to him. An AP400 model he had influenced after meeting her at his job, she eventually came looking for him after deviating, wanting to learn more about his less legal line of work. She has dark brown skin, grey eyes, and shoulder-length straight hair tied back in a ponytail. She wears a black and grey outfit marking her as a WD500, a delivery android. Her LED, previously removed, changes from a spinning yellow to a solid blue as she stalls her processes. She had been composing music to test out later, Connor knows, a hobby that she often keeps to herself but for which she still enjoys company. “How late will you be?”

Connor stands. “At least a couple of hours. I’m sorry to leave this much work to you on short notice, but it can’t be helped. This is… I have some personal errands to run and they cannot be delayed.” He offers his hand. “I appreciate the help, Alicia.”

Alicia stands and shakes his hand firmly. “Zera and I can manage until you get there, don’t worry.” She picks her cap off of the table and places it snugly on her head. “Let us know if you get a car and we’ll start scouting out rescues, okay? This weather will be good for covering our tracks.”

“Only if there’s something along the way. I don’t have time--”

“Connor.” She fixes him with a steely gaze. “Our people don’t have time. You need to make an effort. At least do that for us, since we’re the ones spending our whole night in that hellhole. We are equals in this.”

His vocalizer clicks once with the bitter feeling of guilt. “I will do what I can provided that it fits within our allotted time frame. As soon as I ascertain whether or not this will be possible, you will be informed.” He relaxes his posture. “I’ll keep you updated. Once I’m done, I’ll reach out to you and let you know what’s possible.”

The vehicles they typically take are easy-to-steal trucks or SUVs large enough to hide at least a few injured androids within. Usually there are a few automated city or corporate vehicles driving about in secluded enough areas to be hijacked, but it is never a guarantee.

Alicia nods. “Thanks. I know our priorities sometimes differ, but we have the opportunity for way more than parts tonight. If you give the all clear, we’ll go for it.”

“Both of you take care. I’ll call when I get there. Let me know if you move outside of the planned route and I will find the closest entrance.”

“Yeah, I got it, I know the drill. Good luck on your errands.” She heads out the door, schooling her face to a neutral expression befitting the model she is impersonating.

Connor sighs, letting his own neutral expression drop to one of frustration. Android scrapyard missions have a tendency to make everyone tense. Wading through a wasteland of the dead and dying isn’t pleasant in the first place, but it has become a necessity to avoid scrutiny. Scavenging is the most reliable, low-risk way to gather parts for those who need them, with far less chance of alarm than sneaking into an official CyberLife location, and rescuing androids who can be repaired is a basic goal of the network that he is building. Thirium, thankfully, is less of a concern since he and anyone else masquerading as a human can simply purchase what they need to supplement their stolen stock.

It’s easy to connect with other androids he meets at the garage where he works. All he needs to do is interface with them and send them a packet of information, just enough to provide insight into feelings and freedom along with people and places that are safe to contact. Whether they deviate or not then lies in their hands. If they do, some, like Zera, flee and hide, living in the shadows and squatting in abandoned properties much like Connor used to. Others, like Alicia, have been able to build human identities. Still others remain in their assigned roles, acting as if they never deviated; of those, a fair number are willing to provide aid to others.

What surprises Connor most is the dedication so many of these androids have for each other. They do not have Jericho or a shared location to bind them together (barring the small social groups that inevitably form), yet consistently they are willing to risk something to help out others, whether that comes down to anything from social engagement to scavenging in scrapyards, even for those they have not met. All one needs is to ask a question and it will eventually reach the right person to help them out.

All in all, it’s a start. Communities can be built on this. Connor has come to recognize a few names over time when word reaches him, a few people who show clear leadership qualities and are ready to hack out a space in Detroit--or further--to start a real life.

Every face he sees makes him wonder if it belongs to someone who was once killed because of him. Because he led the FBI to Jericho.

He shakes his head, pushing that thought away and opening his bedroom door with more force than necessary, the door hitting the wall with a _crack_. He cannot let regret take over.

He undresses completely, save for his underwear, and slides open the closet. Hanging behind his coat is a garment bag, the plastic black and opaque, completely hiding the uniform within. He pulls it out of the closet and removes the bag, scowling at the garish yellow and grey WM500 outfit. It’s in fair condition despite having been salvaged from the same scrapyard he’s returning to tonight; it only needed a little bit of fixing up and a good bit of scrubbing, and now it looks passable even on close inspection. He pulls the outfit on, filled with unease and a feeling of shame as he activates the LED markers. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his reflection in the bedroom mirror, making him feel like he’s dressing up like a doll.

He feels like that a lot lately.

He grabs the LED tucked into the back of his bedside table drawer and pops it into place at his temple, the yellow and then blue color blinking back at him from the mirror. He lets his gaze linger, considering for a moment, then issues the command for blond hair. The color spreads outwards from his scalp, golden blond overtaking the dark brown that he was designed with.

It isn’t a proper disguise, but it will work. Making the hair color change work with his model was enough hassle on its own; he had to rewrite and test the code multiple times after borrowing it from an RK900. At the very least he shouldn’t be immediately recognizable if he passes by someone he knows.

Connor squares his shoulders. 11:17:32. Time to get going.

 

* * *

 

The wind gusts come and go as he walks, the city noise dancing between cacophony and silence. It’s quieter than it has been lately as people stay inside or rush to their destinations to avoid the uncertain weather.

Connor keeps his eyes forward and face flat, forcing mechanical neutrality. He lets his eyes wander only enough to gauge his surroundings, tracking everything from the depth of the snow that’s beginning to stick to the location of every window and light around him. He walks steadily down the sidewalk along one of the busier roads, the street not bustling but not lacking in cars. A few lit windows catch the corner of his eye from the apartments lining the street, but most have curtains shut for privacy. He resists the impulse to look over and up at them, to see if anyone is watching from a curtain either wide open or simply tucked aside for a small sliver of visibility.

 

_The Friday evening traffic brings with it some much-needed relief. With the vastly reduced population of the city, it has proven difficult to blend in at night, but the end of the standard work week relieves some of the burden. There is a sense of safety in being counted among the numbers of strangers._

_Connor keeps a small smile on his face like he’s thinking about something nice, something pleasant. As if like some others around him, he’s going home (or out) to spend time with loved ones and good entertainment, spending his evening unwinding. He stops with the rest of them at the red crosswalk, eyes drifting up to the night sky. Airplane lights give the illusion of stars, the real astral bodies hidden behind a heavy haze of pollution. A strand of his wig’s black curly hair bounces onto his face and he tucks it back carefully, then adjusts the elastic bands on his air mask, feigning more discomfort than he feels. It’s a hot summer evening; this would be very uncomfortable if he aspirated like a human._

_The walk turns green and he joins the crowd in crossing, eyes falling and slowly tracking across the nearby buildings, their windows allowing him glimpses into human life. He draws conclusions from one with a couple of succulents in the sill, looking fairly healthy; and from another, a man sits at a computer built several decades ago, the screen black and green. It takes less than a second to analyze what he can from each window, but the time is triple what it should be._

_He sighs, focusing on the path before him. That’s what he’s out for tonight, anyway: Thirium from a Red Ice supplier he’s tracked down. His reserves have dropped too low to ignore. He may not be in peak condition, but the plan is simple. Get in, get thirium, get out._

_The con was easier when Hank was around. He just needs to work harder not to get caught._

_There’s a subtle movement in a hotel window across the street. It causes his steps to stutter briefly; the movement is not significant and does not stand out, merely the brief shift of a curtain, but something about it raises his hackles. His gaze snaps up, locking onto the figure and taking a half second to process what he’s looking at._

_His own face--something near to the original design, not the way he looks now, changing his makeup on a daily basis--with icy blue eyes. The standard RK900 chassis. Its eyes lock onto his._

_The half second of processing time was too long, he realizes as the bullet pierces his cheek, barely moving in time to avoid fatal damage. A child shrieks and people scream, most running away from him but a couple chancing a look at Connor or the hotel. His face aches, the jagged edges of his chassis feeling raw and sharp, the dent in his face a very real and immediate pain._

_Connor runs._

 

That fear is gone now but the caution remains.

He feels like he’s caught in a snowglobe, the world suspended around him, stirred up intermittently by gusts of wind. The flakes on the street melt quickly, causing it to glisten under the streetlights. The pavement will cool soon enough, letting ice develop by tomorrow, and he understands why humans grouch about the weather.

He doesn’t know Cole, but he wants to. Wants to meet the light of Hank’s life, the person who gives him meaning and hope and a smile that Connor had never once seen in the Hank he knew before.

He’s read a lot of poetry. Had a lot of time, really, to do nothing but read or browse the internet in times when stasis was not necessary. Snow is one of those vast subjects he never had the time to understand. The ache, fear, and death that it caused to many were easy enough; he experienced enough of those himself. But wonder and delight? Introspection and mild melancholy? Love and romance? Winter held none of that for him.

No doubt Cole finds it delightful. Children often do, but it isn’t something he has experienced or seen firsthand. And Hank…

Come to think of it, he has never seen Hank--or anyone else he knows, for that matter--consider winter weather as anything but a nuisance. Never had the time to learn their thoughts on it.

Perhaps Hank would keep some positive associations this time around.

Connor reaches the nearest city garage with a slight spring in his step.

He approaches the garage in a roundabout way, avoiding the cameras easily. When he reaches the one with a view of the door, he stands under it and remotely connects to it, hacking it for just long enough to force it to loop the footage for the next fifteen minutes.

Taking one last glance around the perimeter and finding it to his satisfaction, he pulls the small kit out from his pocket and selects the tool he needs. He hunches over to pick the lock. This would certainly be easier if they kept their security up to date--hacking it would be so simple--but he can make do.

17 seconds later and it clicks. He steps in quickly, closing the door behind him.

The garage is colder than outside and fairly dark; he has to adjust his light sensitivity to compensate. A number of winter vehicles rest, waiting to be activated in the morning. Along the far wall, a line of androids stands, staring blankly ahead.

A sudden ache in his chest calls for him to help them, free them, do something, but he can’t. He told himself this before he came here and he needs to stand by it. Scouting out and disabling any cameras would take too much time and any number of things he does could arouse suspicion. He doesn’t want any of that to come back onto these androids.

He finds the nearest salt truck and puts his hand to the door, skin peeling back, and he unlocks it easily. Hacking automated vehicles was one of the first useful skills he learned after deviating. Security may have improved in his time, but that only gave him an additional challenge to work through. These ones, though, are beyond dated to his perspective.

He presses his hand to the console, waking the machine. The shiny white and grey of his chassis in the bright blue light makes him feel exposed.

The schedule has already been set to start at four in the morning, following a predetermined path through a section of the city for most of the day. Connor writes additional code, hiding a virus in the system to activate at noon to adjust the schedule. The vehicle will continue on its regularly scheduled course, but will take a half-hour detour to cover the intersection where Cole died in his own timeline and will inevitably return to the garage a half hour late.

If his meddling means a neighborhood doesn’t get the roads treated in time to prevent another fatal crash, he will find a way to live with it. Everything he does could change everything else; there is no point dwelling on it, he firmly reminds himself. Not at this point.

The process takes only a couple minutes, the garage completely silent except for the creaking and the wind. His hand lingers, LED spinning as he considers his next action, and then he shrugs.

He inserts a packet of information, editing it from the typical one he sends to other androids so that it hopefully won’t make any sense if a human gets ahold of it, and sends a message to one of the androids resting along the wall: _‘Thursday evening, access the console of city vehicle 4z890-5. Copy file r101135 and store it on your system. Wipe the file from city vehicle 4z890-5.’_

The message is received.

Finally he shuts down the console, the blue glow cutting off to douse the vehicle in darkness once again. He leaves without incident, relocking the door behind him and exiting the premises before the security camera loop ends.

The next order of business could be a little more dangerous, but it’s now past midnight and he has some distance to walk. He’s banking on everyone being asleep and hasn’t come up with any back-up plan that is secure enough for him to be confident in its efficacy.

He’s good at improvising, but it should not be necessary.

 

* * *

 

The walk to Hank’s neighborhood takes the better part of an hour. The wind gusts become less frequent and intense and the snowfall pauses, leaving only a thin white layer on the city for the night. The path is familiar for Connor. When he finds himself in front of the house with its curtains drawn and lights out, force of habit nearly brings his feet to the front doorstep, but he instead slows his gait on the sidewalk, ambling over to the end of the driveway instead.

The car is not there.

Connor purses his lips, staring at the beige-painted wood. With inclement weather, of course it makes sense to park the car inside the garage, but the thought never crossed his mind. Why would it? He’s never seen the garage have enough space in it for a car.

He takes a breath to settle himself and deactivates the jacket’s LED markers, committing to his mission. It’s too dark to see his face. If anyone sees him, he can simply flee.

He remotely disables the motion-activated light above the door before approaching. He withdraws a lockpick, thankful now that his set has wooden handles, and reaches up to the emergency keyhole at the top of the door, feeling his way through the sparking lock until the opening mechanism disconnects.

He replaces the pick and bends to lift the door manually, the door creaking and squeaking along a track that needs oiling, slipping under once he has a couple of feet to work with. There is a bucket against the wall to the right; he takes this and sets it under the door to prop it open. He should be able to reattach the mechanism from the inside before leaving in just a few minutes.

The garage is clean. Organized. Tools and boxes line the wall to the right, along with a couple of cupboards that Connor knows are likely filled with utilities such as light bulbs, cleaning products, and pest sprays. There’s clutter, but not at all the mess he’s used to.

The car is parked towards the left. It takes him only a minute to unlock it, power on the console, and download and upload the necessary data, granting him remote access to the vehicle’s GPS and control system, allowing him to remotely take control. It isn’t something he plans to use, but it’s very possible he will have a visual angle and focus on oncoming traffic that Hank lacks. Taking control could very well cause more issues than it solves, but having it there as one more option gives Connor some peace, on the very small chance that it proves to be the best option.

He powers down the vehicle and steps out, locking it once more, before he hears the door to the house open. The garage light flickers on and Hank blearily looks right at him, wearing lounge pants and an old band shirt, the light of the hall behind him.

“What the hell?”

Connor pulls his hand from the car door and turns away from him as quickly as possible, reflexes lightning fast; there’s no way Hank got any more than a glimpse of his face. He darts for the exit and drops to the floor, rolling under the garage door and then onto his feet in a crouched position. He yanks the bucket out and the door falls, slamming into the ground enough to shake the house but, thankfully, not enough to damage the door itself.

Hank curses across the seconds it takes Connor to escape, approaching the android until the door hits the ground. “Hey--what the--get the fuck--”

Connor takes off, sprinting back into the city. From the end of the street he can hear Hank’s front door open. He turns the corner and darts out of sight, running until he can find a place to lay low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this chapter. Exposition is one of my favorite things to write. I've been chipping away at it for the past couple of weeks.
> 
> Fun fact: This chapter wasn't supposed to exist. At all. I started it out with a scene that's now been moved to chapter 4, but thought it would be better to add more characters and illustrate scenes fully rather than simply referencing the actions.
> 
> Chapter has been edited to address Detective Reed primarily as Gavin within the narrative for consistency's sake,


	4. October 11, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about android markers: I have removed the triangle and the armband when describing the imagery. I have replaced it with a triangular CyberLife symbol, like a logo, in place of the triangles.

_Heaven never ever heard a word I said_  
_I've cried enough to raise the dead_  
_"Everything comes and goes," they say_  
_Here tomorrow, gone today_

“The Balancer’s Eye” by Lord Huron

 

Hank curses quietly, stumbling into the house and turning into his bedroom to grab his phone. He dials the number for the police, fumbling a bit from the adrenaline, and steps into his slippers, grumbling to himself as he does so. “What the hell… Did I even see that? Was that fucking real?”

An operator picks up, some poor soul working the night shift. The voice is familiar but the name escapes him. “This is the Detroit Police, how can we help you?”

Hank clears his throat, stepping back into the garage. It’s cold. “This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson. I’d like to report a break-in at my house on 115 Michigan Drive.”

“Okay, sir. Is the intruder still there? Are you safe?”

“Yeah, he’s gone now. _It’s_ gone. It was--It was one of those damn androids, if you can believe it. Some city android broke in.” He shuffles across the floor, eyes slowly moving across the car. There isn’t a scratch to be seen and the interior appears untouched. “I don’t know what it took, but it was--it had its hand on my car for whatever reason. And it broke my f… my garage door.”

“Do you need any immediate assistance?”

“Nope, I’m good. No emergencies here. I just need this android found.”

“Are you certain it was an android?”

Hank sighs. “Yes. One hundred percent. It was wearing one of those jackets with the blue CyberLife symbol on the front and back and it had that thing in its head. That spinny yellow LED. I know it sounds ridiculous, but this wasn’t a person. I would’ve thought I was imagining things if my garage door wasn’t broken.” He peers up at the broken connection between the door and the mechanism, not sure if it’s safe to fix that on his own. Certainly not with only a few hours’ sleep and at two in the morning.

“Got it, Lieutenant. Can you describe what it looked like?”

“I didn’t get a clear view of it. It had one of those yellow uniforms on. Maintenance, I think? Looked like a white male adult with light-colored hair, either brown or blond. I didn’t see its face, but the hair was cut close and neat at the back.” He squints, reviewing the memory in his mind as the android rolled back outside, hair flowing with the movement. “A little longer on top.”

“Alright, I’ve got all that recorded. We’ll see if we can figure out what model it was and if there were any city android GPS signals around your house at this time. You said you don’t know if it took anything?”

“Not that I can tell.” He tries the handle on his car to find it locked. “Probably not. It just broke my garage door. Hell, probably the outdoor light, too,” he says. The light should have turned on when the android left, but even in the couple of seconds before it pulled out the bucket, he doesn’t recall anything but darkness outside. “I don’t know who sent it. Who hacked it or whatever, or if it’s just glitchy, but it’s creepy.”

“Thank you for the information. We’ll make sure this gets looked into. Someone should get in contact with you soon.”

“Great. Make sure that it does.” He can’t risk Cole getting hurt because of God-knows-what is going on with this android if someone doesn’t investigate it. “Night.”

He hangs up, bouncing the phone in his hand. He takes another good, long look at the broken connection, weighing in his mind how important it is to have his car tomorrow. Cole takes the bus to school and he can take a cab to work--and during work, a cab or Gavin’s car--but if possible, he wants the independence of his own car. Preferably without causing further damage to his garage door.

He takes another look at his car and turns out the light, stepping back inside and locking the door behind him. Mentally, he argues with himself for a couple of minutes while returning to his room, and once he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, finally sends a text.

He knows a mechanic.

 

* * *

 

Connor shucks off his salvaged black jacket the moment he’s back in his apartment, sleet-diluted sludge making it hit the tiled floor with a heavy _splop_. The WM500 android jacket follows quickly, flung with a bit more force, and its stiff collar clacks against the unplugged fridge. His black t-shirt, also with its fair share of grime, ends up on the floor a few steps behind the couch.

He kicks the bathroom door shut with more force than necessary. One hand turns on the shower while the other undoes his belt, and at the same time he’s kicking off his boots. He deftly toes off his socks before yanking his jeans and boxers down, leaving them in a messy pile that stinks of the scrapyard.

Naked, he steps into the shower and pulls the curtain closed, feeling safe in the darkness. Grime and thirium, none of it his, trickle down with the water. He lathers up with a bar of soap, scrubbing over every inch of his body with the bar, including his hair, and following it up with a washcloth, scrubbing with an intensity that is not harmful yet registers as mild pain. He continues even when he’s clean, tackling every residual trace he can detect on his skin.

Eventually he drops the washcloth to the floor and stares at the wall before him, the too-hot water reddening his skin with every drop. He forcibly deactivates the subroutine that permits that. It’s something he leaves in place most times to help with his integration, but he has never enjoyed it, the change reminding him too much of the splotchy flush humans get when they cry.

His thoughts turn blissfully silent while he watches the wall before him, color leaving his skin and a faint red light reflecting off of the tiles beside him. The world fades into white noise.

 

_It is Saturday, November 20, 2038. Androids have been in legal limbo for over a week now as politicians, CyberLife, the UN, and anyone else with enough pull have been bickering about what, exactly, to do about them. The outcome looks promising: Legislation has been drafted to grant androids in the United States personhood and basic rights, something to serve as an emergency placeholder until improved laws can be written. Lawmakers have been holding audiences with Jericho’s leadership, which is as frustrating as it is beneficial, since human word is weighted so much more heavily._

_Connor is in a cab when he hears the news._

_INCOMING CALL: RK200 Markus_

_“Hello,” he answers, looking passively out the tinted window. It’s a bright, chilly day. It’s an unusual time for Markus to be calling; Connor hasn’t made any friends among Jericho’s leadership, only interacting with them for the sake of politics, though he has spent plenty of time around other androids who have forgiven his past. “How is every--”_

_“Connor.” Markus’ voice is hard. “We need your help.”_

_“I don’t under--”_

_“Check the news. Remove your LED, disguise yourself, and get to any safehouse you know of to help people evacuate. Be discreet.” He emphasizes the last two words._

_Connor agrees immediately. “Understood,” he says. It’s the first and only demand Markus has ever made of him and the urgency in his voice has him feeling on edge. “Anything else?”_

_“I think you’re a good man, Connor, even if you can’t see it yet. Thank you.” Markus hangs up._

_He removes his tie first, shoving it into a pocket in his jeans, then removes his jacket, turning it inside out to hide the identifiers while he pulls up radio and news shows, the simultaneous chatter easy to sift through as an android. Details on the situation are scarce so far, but he manages to piece together enough to get an idea of what’s going on._

_Jericho’s efforts have failed._

_Rumors hold that recognition of android personhood has been blocked by executive order as a matter of national defense._

_A pang of something that feels hot and distinctly threatening strikes in his chest, his simulated breathing stuttering to a halt._

_Is this it? Is this what everything comes down to? The rights of an entire people stifled by the investments of the wealthy?_

_National defense. It makes sense. So much sense that he should have seen it coming from a mile away. The United States has always been invested in its military, and with 80% of military personnel being androids, the state would become vulnerable. Android military activity may have been reduced, but word about deviants in the military has been lacking._

_At least, that is the reasoning that comes to mind. There will not be one single catalyst for this decision, but corporate interests must sit at the very top._

_It leaves a taste in his mouth that he wants to categorize as bitter._

Why the danger, then? Why is Markus afraid? _He wonders as he pops out his LED, using a quarter for leverage. It joins the tie in his pocket._ This may be a step back, but it is not a dead end.

Pop!

_He snaps his head to the left, looking out the window as his cab turns the corner._

_He sees the human first, an armed soldier with a gun in his hand. Human military presence has remained in the city since being called in to address the situation. Connor’s anticipation grows, heart beating faster as the android finally comes into view._

_The android kneels on the ground, face stuck in a stressed expression of fear with a hole in its head, oozing blue. Flecks of thirium dot the tree behind it. A few onlookers are being ushered away by another human._

_Connor stops the taxi and opens the door, running towards the armed human. He stops a few feet away, looking at his face with bewilderment. “What are you doing? What’s going on? Why did you…”_

_Another soldier raises their hand, pushing it against the front of Connor’s soldier. “Get back to your cab, son.”_

_The other speaks up. “All androids are to be returned to CyberLife warehouses for inspection and disassembly.” He nudges the body with his foot. “This one resisted.”_

_“They’re a civilian! A household model!” Connor snaps at him. He wrenches his gaze to the corpse. “Why would you use lethal force against them?”_

_Dread rises like ice along his spine. This is what made Markus so worried. He knew before he made that call._

_There was a scare last week that recycling camps would be set up, but the infrastructure was lacking; recalled androids were delivered to warehouses instead. Many fled the moment a ceasefire was declared, but many stayed, having nowhere else to go._

_There might be no way to help them now._

_The one closest to him nudges him again. “Sir, we are aware not everyone has evacuated, but you must--”_

_Connor’s fist meets his stomach._

_He knees the soldier’s chin hard enough to hear teeth cracking, then grabs his hair, steps to his side, and rams his face into the ground, leaving a bloody mark on the ground and the soldier unconscious with a broken nose. The second shoots at him with a curse, but the move has already been anticipated; Connor dodges with ease before stepping into his space, wrenching the gun out of his hands and pointing it at the man’s face._

_He shoots him with a loud_ crack _._

_Blood splatters onto his face like rain._

 

The world is red. Red behind his eyelids. Red water pouring down onto him, lit only by the light at his temple. Red walls.

He leans forward, snapping his arm out past the curtain to grab the small scissors he keeps in here. The LED is out in moments and he flings it away, hearing a _thwick_ and a clatter as it hits the wall and then the ground. The scissors follow.

Connor slides down the wall and sits, water cascading over his stiffly still body. A thin stream of thirium rolls down from his temple. Blue.

He reactivates the breathing routine he didn’t realized had stopped.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

His heart slows to a less frantic pace. Blinking resumes. His spine relaxes and fingers start to move, drumming a beat against his shin, and breathing returns to an automatic background process. The stiffness leaves his body as his stress falls under critical levels.

Finally he leans back against the wall with a sigh, feeling drained.

“I’m good. I’m okay,” he says. His voice is shaky and too low in tone. A hint of static breaks through. “I’m safe. We are all safe. We are all alive.”

He sits there past when the water goes cold, only turning it off when he realizes over eighty minutes have passed. Getting himself up is slow and he takes his time drying himself off. The mirror catches his reflection and he sneers at it, immediately changing from blond hair back to brown. His expression drops, something tired and sad to reflect this strange mix of emotions he cannot explain but is all too familiar with.

He gathers his dirty clothes and tosses them all in the washing machine, boots set beside it, before reactivating access to his internal clock while rolling his dim LED across his fingers.

5:37 AM.

Connor groans. “Shit,” he says, cringing and holding his LED still.

Normally, he doesn’t end up this bad after scavenging. He and whoever else is there that night scour the yard, picking and choosing what parts to take or people to save and putting the rest out of sight and out of mind, ignoring all of the blinking LEDs, sparking wounds, and dissonant voices they are unable to help. Striding past the hands reaching out to beg for help as some of their people experience one last desperate flicker of hope in their final hours. They saved a few last night, even, as Connor got lucky enough to find a car on the way, but the experience is always harrowing.

He’s used to this. He compartmentalizes and so do his comrades. They take the parts or rescued androids to a safe house where other volunteers help patch them up or sort the parts so that even more people can help out later. Word gets out only once the scavenging mission is over (as a safety precaution so as not to compromise their location) and whoever can help that night and the following day shows up. It’s inconsistent--some days it’s one person, other days they have had up to eight--but it’s their system.

The scavengers never stay. They scatter as soon as they can, knowing that who or what they’ve brought back is in good hands and that they all need time to reduce their stress.

Connor gets home and showers until his mind feels numb. Then he washes his clothes, sleeps, and forces himself back into his daily routine the next morning.

Sometimes he nicks himself when taking out his LED, sure. Sometimes his clothes end up strewn across the apartment.

But he doesn’t throw things and he doesn’t spend an hour in the shower. He doesn’t get wrapped up in awful memories. They’re meant to flit through his mind, half-remembered, unless he actively pulls up the files. Lately it’s like he’s dreaming, the memories screeching starkly in his head, sometimes warping to make a new nightmare for him to watch.

A diagnostic comes back clean.

He heaves a frustrated sigh, whacking the washing machine half-heartedly with his hand. “I’ve done this plenty of times,” he says as if reasoning with the appliance, thumb tapping against its rumbling white shell. “My response always fits within a reasonable expectation for the levels of stress I endure. My schedule accommodates for the occasional panic attack. I function within expected parameters, given my anxiety.” He glares at the machine. “I _have_ expected parameters. Everyone does. Especially as an android in good shape. Androids do not deviate from expected…”

He grimaces as his own words slap him. It may be true that androids typically stick to expectations better than humans, but he is deviant. He is not bound to whatever would keep him from having a worse than anticipated meltdown.

He holds out his hands, exasperated. “I am a state-of-the-art prototype. I have a number of tolerable flaws for an incomplete product, but I am the best model in existence right now. I have the fastest processor of any mobile android.” He scoffs. “There’s no way I would malfunction like this.”

He stares at the machine, expression curling into a grimace.

Just like humans, he is fully capable of speaking to his washing machine, naked and exhausted, on a Thursday morning.

Three rough clicks escape from his vocalizer. His stress is slightly above his standard at the current time. He knows his standard is elevated in the first place; he may not have the tools to measure his own stress, only to estimate the stress of others based on behavior, but it is one feeling he has managed to identify if only because its absence is so rare. Prolonged stress can have catastrophic effects on humans. In androids, it can be a cause of deviancy.

What of deviant androids, then?

Connor plods to his bedroom to get dressed for the day, stopping at his bedside table first. He reaches in, placing his LED at the back and reaching for the plain silver ring hidden in the back corner. He pulls it out, thumbing the surface of it, and puts it on his finger.

He looks at it on his hand, the plain silver band dull without any lights on. His history may not be entirely linear at this point, but it’s still October 11. One of the two dates carved on Hank’s headstone. He managed to visit a couple of times, carving _Husband_ into the stone face underneath _Father_ one night when his heart was filled with a particular cocktail of love, grief, and spite.

Sometimes, Connor likes to imagine what their wedding could have been like, anything from a small gathering of friends to an opulent party where they invited everyone they knew. In some scenarios, Markus officiates, something Hank joked about even after Markus was long dead.

There was never enough time or safety to organize anything. As it was, few months after the proposal, Hank started calling Connor his husband and that was that.

He reaches on top of the furniture and interfaces with his phone to check his messages in case something needs to be addressed.

There is a single text from Hank.

He pulls his hand back immediately as if stung, feeling and hearing the sharp click his throat makes as his heart speeds up. Pushing the feeling back, he rests his bare hand on the device again and opens the message.

_> Hank: hey what’s up i know it’s early but i want to ask a favor_

_> Hank: some asshole broke my garage door. like the thing that opens and closes it._

_> Hank: is that something u can fix?? i can pay_

_> Hank: if you’re up before 8 just text or call and lmk_

Connor grins slowly, something relaxing inside of him. As much as he should avoid Hank--and succeeded in doing, until Hank saw him in class that one day--something about the other man makes him feel like the rest of the world doesn’t even exist. Like the scrapyard he just came from is just a foggy memory and CyberLife has fallen into obscurity, or he doesn’t have the image of Hank’s dead body seared into his core.

Part of him is tempted to say no and let Hank’s car stay in the garage, but the chances of that changing anything at this point are slim.

He sends a response.

_> Connor: I have work at 8:00 AM. I can get there soon if you are awake._

A few seconds pass and he sends another, realizing that Connor Jerik wouldn’t know where he lives.

_> Connor: Send me your address and I will let you know if it is feasible._

There. Successful adulting, as Hank would say. Making plans like a stable, put-together human adult.

He dresses in another plain black t-shirt and jeans along with his brown leather jacket and grins when he hears the phone buzz.

 

* * *

 

Connor arrives around 6:30, the cab dropping him off at Hank’s house. He shivers with nerves. The house looks almost exactly as it did hours ago, dawn still an hour off, though lights peek out from behind the blinds.

He knocks at the front door, steadying himself with a breath. Sumo barks inside, moving about excitedly, and he can hear Hank’s heavy footsteps approaching before the door opens to reveal the man himself.

“Good morning, Hank.”

Hank beckons him in, fully clothed in a long-sleeved patterned shirt and jeans. “There’s coffee in the pot,” he says, gesturing to the kitchen. “I hope I didn’t wake you or anything, texting you at ass o’clock at night.”

Sumo jogs right up to Connor’s side, looking up with big eyes and nudging his wet nose to Connor’s hand. He obliges the dog, leaning over to coo and fuss over him. “Hello, boy,” he says quietly, a genuine smile alighting on his face as he scratches behind the dog’s ears. “Are you taking good care of Hank?”

His own Sumo had passed before Hank did. Another nail in the coffin, so to speak. His heartstrings feel all tangled up now, grief and delight mixing together in some horrid jumble until he wrenches his thoughts to the present, standing upright once more, surrounded by his family-but-not in a place that is his house-but-not.

“I didn’t see the text until my alarm went off,” he lies. He glances at the kitchen. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t drink coffee.”

Hank stares for a moment, then tilts his head to the side with a disbelieving expression. Right away he can tell something’s off about Connor beyond the usual weirdness, like something about him slipped and got put back in the wrong spot. “You didn’t turn down coffee the other day, don’t tell me you… Actually, wait.” He holds up a finger. “Didn’t you say you drink a lot of coffee? I’m not imagining that, right?”

Connor stills for a couple of seconds, staring back at him with wide eyes. “I…” He curses his programming, or lack thereof, for not giving him the right words for awkward situations. “...am very bad at declining hospitality. I was not bui--”

He bites back the word, snapping his mouth shut with a click of his teeth as he reaches his second fumble in as many minutes. _I was not built to routinely drink coffee,_ he almost said. _I do not benefit from the caffeine, only the sensory experience and the social engagement._

He forces himself to relax and grin, giving Sumo one more pat on the head. The effect leaves him looking decidedly off-kilter. “I don’t think my brain’s awake enough to temper my mouth just yet,” he says apologetically. “No coffee, thanks. Your garage?” From the corner of his eye, a shock of brown hair and two sparkling blue eyes peek out above the back of the couch.

Hank shakes his head, giving Connor some room to breathe. “Sumo, stay,” he says before leading Connor into the garage.

Memories of fear and adrenaline--or the closest equivalent an android can have--dance along his veins when he enters, but they subside quickly, leaving just him, Hank, and the cold garage. “You said someone broke the door?”

“Yeah, and the light out the front, but that’s less important.” He gestures up to the mechanism. “Can you fix it?”

Connor peers up at it, spending just enough time to make it look like he’s examining it thoroughly. “That’s strange.” He looks back at Hank. “It looks like someone used the key to disconnect it, but…”

Something gives Hank an eerie sense of déjà vu. “Should that be possible with the power still on? I haven’t had time to look this up yet.”

“Not without risk of serious injury.” Guilt creeps within him and he starts to feel the cold through his jacket. What if Hank had attempted to fix this himself, electrocuting himself in the process? “Or death. Did the police catch them?”

Hank hesitates. “No. It… I swear you’re gonna think I’ve lost my mind, but an android did it. I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but one of those things wanted to get in my garage and it broke the door to do so. Maybe its body is insulated, I don’t know, but it didn’t look electrocuted and I didn’t smell any plastic.”

“An android? You’re certain?”

“Yeah.” He gestures to his temple. “Had the jacket and the LED. Strange as fuck, I know, but at least the operator took my report. So what do we need to do here, and how do I make sure you don’t end up getting zapped in the process?”

“You’ve never reattached a door opener before?”

“Nope. Not a single one.”

“Thankfully, it’s easy. Pull that red cord straight down and hold it; I’ll take care of the rest.”

Once the door is finally reset, Connor remotely hacks the light once more to reactivate it; it flickers on while he’s lowering the door again.

“Looks like the light fixed itself,” Hank says. “At least something’s going right this week.”

“Rough week?” Connor asks, dusting off his hands. “Is everything okay?”

“Well…” Hank glances back to the door leading inside. It’s cold, but he doesn’t want Cole overhearing everything. “Things aren’t not okay, but they’re a little weird. Like this whole… fiasco. Have you ever heard of an android doing something like that?”

Plenty. “Not exactly. I imagine it’s possible, but it’s definitely out of the ordinary.”

Hank laughs, the sound tinged with bitterness. “That’s a good way to put it. It’s exactly how my life feels right now, too.”

Connor eyes him cautiously. Concern wins out and he takes a few steps closer, putting them at a companionable distance. “Is something going on?”

“Sort of. It’s more what’s not going on that’s the problem.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Have you ever met your soulmate?”

His thirium pump skips a beat. “Yes.”

Hank nods towards Connor’s left hand. “And the ring?” He hasn’t seen it before today.

Connor’s lips and fingers tighten. “My husband.”

Hank frowns, the odd tone and curt phrases not sitting right with him, subtle though they may be. “Anyway. I haven’t. Met mine, I mean. But…” He sighs. “Nevermind. I didn’t call you over here to vent.”

Connor quirks an eyebrow, the motion sharp. The reasonable side of him tells him to halt this conversation in its tracks. “I asked. And… We’re friends.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we are. Alright.” He steps forward and claps Connor on the shoulder, nodding to himself like he wasn’t sure until now that Connor accepted his friendship. “He... knows who I am, Connor, but that doesn’t go both ways. Out of the ordinary, to use your words.” He laughs. “I respect personal boundaries, but it puts me in an uncomfortable spot. I don’t know how much he knows about me. I mean, is this someone I’ve met once who remembers me? One of my friends, or someone I used to be friends with? Someone I had a relationship with? I don’t have a fucking clue and it’s pissing me off. I guess that puts this solidly in the realm of ‘not okay.’ For all I know it’s some guy I punched in high school and he’s held a grudge ever since. Hell, I’ve changed my fucking name since then.”

“I’m gathering you haven’t had ink for long, have you?”

“Less than a week.” He shakes his head. “Just a few days and I feel like the desperate lead of some movie, worrying way too much over some mystical romantic bullshit when I have a life to get on with. I was excited at first, still am, but...”

“He could be nervous. I would be.”

“Maybe. I’m giving the benefit of the doubt, you know, and I’m not getting invested yet. I’m just frustrated.” Hank sighs. “I guess that’s relationships for you.”

Connor nods. “You said you changed your name? May I ask why?” He already knows why--assuming this Hank is the same as his husband--but his husband never spoke much about his identity.

Hank gives him a good look over, measuring him up, then shrugs. “I’m trans. I came out at nineteen. My deadname wasn’t going to fit anymore, so I tried out Henry. Jeffrey started calling me Hank and the name stuck.”

“It suits you. Though I’m not sure I’ll be calling you Henry anytime soon. Jeffrey made a good choice there.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Hank grins. “So, speaking of relationships… Didn’t know you were married. What’s he like?”

Connor takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as his fragile mood attempts to deflate. He isn’t ready for any of this conversation and certainly didn’t think about this when he put on the ring earlier. The only thing keeping him from ending this here is the need to respect his husband’s memory. Some part of him also needs Hank, as his friend, to think well of his husband. “He’s the best man I’ve ever known. He’s rough around the edges, anyone would tell you that, but he’s good in his own way. He’s firm in his beliefs, but not close-minded. More like... steadfast. He’s risked his neck for me more times than I can count.” His voice wavers.

“Hey,” Hank says quietly, placing a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.” He steps away from the contact. “I should get going. Work, you know.”

“Of course. Yeah. I’ll--Oh, I was going to pay you, I can…”

Connor waves his hand. “You bought me coffee, I fixed your door. That makes us even.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Hank leads them back into the house, the television now on and playing cartoons. “Thanks for putting up with me first thing in the morning. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime. Oh, I never got back to you about plans to get together sometime. I have an engagement tomorrow afternoon, but I will be free after six, if you’re available.” _If you and Cole are still alive,_ he thinks. Hope makes his heart ache.

“Sounds like a plan. We can sort out where to go later?”

“Yeah. Call me.”

 

* * *

 

Hank’s head pounds from too little sleep and too much caffeine as he stares at the case file on his desk, eyes glancing between the notes on the screen and what he’s got marked up on his whiteboard as he wonders what in the hell he’s missing.

The victim, Martin Smith, was a 27-year-old entrepreneur who had been running a donut and coffee chain franchise for a little over a year. He was reported missing a week ago and hadn’t been found until Sunday morning.

Part of him, at least.

If Hank were to open the photos, he would see the grisly image of Martin’s swollen head caught in the debris of the river, mud covering most of the skin and hair. The rest of the body is still missing.

There are no fingerprints or any sort of evidence to help identify a killer, and for all his questioning so far he had no way to find any sort of motive or more than a few suspects, all of whom he has already interviewed and found lacking. The man’s background is clean, no enemies or criminal record, and he had a vibrant social life. Single for months, according to social media, and his ex has a solid alibi. No known soulmate. One defunct android.

All Hank has to work with in the file are bits and pieces from the notes he took during interviews with his friends and associates. The words are all starting to blur together, every one of them sounding like gibberish in his mind.

He groans, tapping the tablet screen off and leaning back, staring at the far wall above the android station. Less than a minute and he’s already uncomfortable with that, spinning left to gaze across to the break room, letting his mind recalibrate.

Or wander, as it is. He lets it. The destressing could do him some good.

His thoughts drift to Cole first. The kid’s been working hard on learning to read and write, but struggling with some of it. He’s sure that’s normal, and he knows Cole is picking up on it, as bright a kid as he is, but he can feel the boy’s frustration when he gets caught on a word that he just can’t get right. It’s something he’s shelved to bring up at the next parent-teacher conference at the end of this month. A meeting that can’t come soon enough; Cole can’t wait to start reading _Harry Potter_ by himself after seeing all of the movies.

He promised to take him to a basketball game this evening. He checks his terminal: 2:45 PM. Just a couple more hours and he’ll be out of here.

The time brings him back to two in the morning and Connor and he feels the same sort of concern he has every time he’s thought about the other man lately. He feels as lost as he does with this case, holding one piece of the puzzle while knowing there are tens more out there. Every time he sees Connor the man looks worse, with more cracks in his smile and anxiety that he can barely keep hidden. It wouldn’t be something he concerns himself so much with if Connor hadn’t said he doesn’t have any friends. Does he have a therapist? Anyone to talk to about his worries? Or is it all bottled up and tucked away while he pretends everything’s alright?

From the sounds of it, Hank and this mystery husband may be the only friends he has. If the husband even counts, that is. Connor’s brief praise of him sounded genuine, but he was certainly eager to change the topic. If his husband is making things worse…

“You’ve got something on your face,” Gavin says, peering around from the other side of the white board. “Anderson, hey, you listening?”

Hank spins back around, staring straight at him. “Yeah, it’s called a beard.”

“That thing? Thought it was some possum clinging to your chin.”

“Someday, you’ll quit shaving and we’ll have to deal deal with whatever ugly rodent your mug looks like it’s got stuck to it.”

“Ugh, look, do you want my help or not? Seriously, I can’t believe I missed it earlier, but you’ve got something on your cheek. Like…” Gavin rubs at his own right cheek to demonstrate. “Like mud. It’s grossing me out.”

Hank brings a hand up to his own face, feeling nothing. His fingers come away clean. “Did I get it?”

“Nope.”

“Reed, are you fucking with me?”

“I could think of better ways to piss you off, Anderson.” Gavin puts his hands up in defeat. “Fine, whatever. I don’t care.”

Hank sighs, picking up his phone and turning on the selfie camera.

There’s a dark grey smudge on his cheek.

“Damn.” He ignores the mumbled _I told you so_ that he gets and reaches his hand up again to wipe at the mark, making no effect on it at all. He spends a solid half minute idly rubbing at it and trying to think of where this came from before it hits him.

He wills the mark to fade and it does.

“Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” he says, putting the phone back on his desk.

Gavin watches him with mild surprise. “Soulmate stuff? That’s some weird shit. What’s your soulmate getting up to?”

“Not a clue, but you go ahead and mind your own business, alright?” Hank says it casually, not any more than mildly irritated. He stands, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. “I need some fresh air. Go home at a normal time tonight and get some fucking sleep for once.” He snatches the tablet off the desk, eager to get out of the precinct. Maybe a drive around will clear his head and find him someone he missed talking to earlier.

Gavin looks ready to resume his work, but he makes the decision to grab Hank’s wrist before he can get out, letting go once he knows he has his attention. “Hey, so I really didn’t want to bring this up because there’s no fucking way it’s anything but coincidence, but…”

“But?” Hank leans against the desk, giving the other man only a minute.

“But you trusted me last night, so I’ll return the favor.” He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. “I didn’t know I had a soulmate until earlier this year.”

“Figured people wouldn’t judge you if you waffled around the subject and let them think you had one, right?”

“The only reason you don’t is because everyone already knows. Knew, whatever. His name’s Caleb. It’s not what he goes by, but that’s not the point. We’ve always been upfront with each other, unlike you and your friend. Point is, when we first wrote, he was being cheeky when I asked for his name. Said some people call him an asshole, some call him another name...“ He gestures with his palm facing up. “Some call him RK. I never asked about that because it wasn’t important. Who knows? It might be coincidence.” He leans back again. “Maybe I’m too slow to trust, but I don’t believe in coincidence and this has been eating at me all day. If these aren’t initials, what are they? A title?”

Hank frowns. There really shouldn’t be anything suspicious about shy soulmates, but Gavin might have a point. “I don’t think so. Ask him sometime. I’m gonna hold off until I actually learn this guy’s name.”

“Let me know who he is when you do.”

“Maybe. Or I could just leave you in the dark, living my own life without your nosy ass getting in my face.” He pushes off the desk. “What does he go by, by the way?”

Gavin sighs. “This is the one and only question you get about my boyfriend, Anderson.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Sixty.”

 

* * *

 

Connor mechanically checks each section under the hood of the car he’s working on, taking his time to go piece by piece and make sure everything’s in working order. There’s grease on his cheek from where he accidentally rubbed the back of his hand on his face. He knows what’s wrong with the car already--the battery connections need to be fixed--but meticulously examining the car ensures he doesn’t work too fast and gives him some time to think.

He’s buried himself in work and study, taking more shifts at work, attending more charity and social events, and making his way through the physics section of the library, reading through the physical works and discreetly scanning parts of the digital selection to review later. Anything to distract himself and feel like he’s doing something productive.

He is, in a way, though worrying himself over physics may be futile at this point; however he ended up back in time, the RK900s are related, but they won’t be completed in this timeline for another four years. Whether his own chassis or program could have been a catalyst is something he can only speculate.

The upkeep of his identity as Connor Jerik is useful. He’s just some guy who inherited a small fortune from his grandparents and got lucky investing it, now giving back to those who need it and making small talk with everyone else at those events. He doesn’t want to rely on that forever, so he works as a mechanic and uses his funds to return to school for a degree that can take him into a better career.

The mask exhausts him, but he knows more questions would be raised if he never showed his face. There are a few people he’s met who should prove useful down the line, including a few CyberLife employees, but he has to be careful or he could jeopardize his own mission.

_His mission._

He grins wryly. Years after deviating and he still sometimes thinks in the ways he was built for.

He fixes the battery connections, shuts the hood, and waves over to Miguel, his supervisor. Miguel waves back, currently chatting with another customer, and Connor leans against the car, pulling out his phone to look occupied.

He checks the GPS on Hank’s car. It’s almost 3:00; it’s just departing the station. Hours before the accident could happen. No doubt he’s out researching a case.

There’s something uplifting about knowing Hank at a time when he cares about his job. Connor can’t tell yet if he’s passionate or simply dedicated, but he doesn’t have the same aura of resignation he once did.

Idly he plays a mobile game on his phone while looking over a journal article internally. It explores the differences in adaptability and autonomy between a brand new ST200 and PL600 when presented with given situations, comparing a few upkept models and two that were continuously reset at certain periods. Their exact behaviors are documented alongside the interpretations, assumptions, and observations by the scientists studying them, with a lengthy analysis of portions of their code--at least, a publicly available portion of the code.

His left arm feels cold. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, glancing out towards the busy street. The pages turn in his mind as he reanalyzes the study, taking the words now with the full context of the facts and the conclusion, seeing how they piece together. He notes a few questions to consider later about the study.

Synthetic hair prickles at the back of his neck and he turns to find Miguel and the customer staring at him. The customer looks at him with pity and Miguel with anguish, one hand over his mouth.

Immediately he approaches. “Is everything okay?”

The movement brings his arm into sight, his rolled-up sleeves revealing the pale skin of his forearms.

His left arm is red.

He freezes, staring at it. The color spreads slowly, oozing like thick watercolor paints in the form of flat, dry ink, drips defying gravity to roll up his arm and under his sleeve.

Blood. Definitely blood. Very human blood--and not his.

He pings the car’s GPS.

Offline.

He runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is what I spent my weekend working on... c:


	5. October 11, pt 2

 

_I been dreaming again of a lonesome road_  
_Where I'm lost and I've got no friends_  
_Just the rocks and the trees_  
_And my lonesome dreams_  
_And a road that'll never end_

_I been dreaming again of a lonesome world_  
_Where I'm lost and I'm on my own_  
_Left my best in the beats on this trip, baby_  
_Just please don't leave me alone_

“Lonesome Dreams” by Lord Huron

The small café is warm and cozy, a familiar nook warding against the greyness of Detroit just outside the windows. The lunchtime rush hasn’t hit yet and the place sits comfortably, the calm before the inevitable storm. Two baristas talk quietly while a third attempts to look busy. A chalkboard is set above the coffee machines, dictating the standard and seasonal drink and lunch menus in a font only marginally deviated from CyberLife Sans. _October 11,_ the board reads, the analog clock next to it ticking away. Pumpkin spice and cinnamon dominate, the scents filling the room. Mini pumpkins decorate the counter.

Two of the baristas are androids. The human looks happy enough to have a conversational partner.

“Hey, Sixty.”

“Good morning, Gavin.” The other man looks up at him from his seat at the small window table, one lock of hair charmingly out of place as it brushes against his forehead. He’s wearing a black hoodie with a cartoon image of a cat wielding a knife on the front, fitted just well enough to accentuate his--in Gavin’s opinion--perfect form. A watch peeks out from under his sleeve: Rose gold with a dark brown leather band and brilliant chocolate brown face. There’s already a sandwich and coffee at the table for each of them when Gavin arrives, Sixty’s already half eaten. He has a tablet lit up in front of him. “Have you seen the news?”

“Nope.” Gavin takes the seat across from him and takes a long swig of his coffee, making a face. “Sugar-free syrup? You know I can taste that shit.”

Sixty shrugs. “Is it tolerable?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then text me back next time.”

“You gave me three minutes before saying I was too late,” he says, holding up three fingers when he says the number. He delves into his sandwich, speaking with his mouth full. “I was working, you dick.”

“So am I.” Sixty grins and raises his eyebrows, swiping over to the next page on the tablet. “Right now.”

Gavin only catches a glimpse of the screen: A sales listing on some website. “Buying parts so you can tinker with more shit?”

Sixty rolls his eyes. “I like having more to work with; I’m not going to limit myself to what I’m already familiar with. I work with different parts, I get practical learning experience and the fruits of my experimentation. It’s worth it, you know.” He lifts one end of the tablet an inch. “I built this for less than twenty bucks and it should last years longer than your standard tablet. Yours was, what, eighty? Built to break by next year, sooner if you drop it?” He wrinkles his nose. “Tech companies love their planned obsolescence.”

“You never said why you don’t just go to school,” Gavin says. “I mean, shit, you could breeze through a degree, get yourself into some tech company--or finagle your way into one without a degree, honestly--and make loads more than you do now helping them develop overpriced gadgets like that. Is it that you don’t want them to take your ideas?”

Sixty laughs, the sound of his voice bright against the dim pop music of the café. “As much as I’d enjoy the access to resources, it’s not what I want. I prefer my freedom. I don’t want to serve some corporation and help them make whatever the next big thing is. I don’t have an ounce of desire to make something for the sake of consumers. It’s too… stifling.” He shakes his head. “I don’t need the paycheck, anyway.”

Gavin shrugs. “You sure? I mean, I know you manage with whatever machines and crafts you sell, but you could do more than manage. I know you came from money, but that’s going to run dry someday. I’m just saying.”

“And you could do more than risk a bullet every week. You’re clever enough to explore different career options yourself.”

“Someone’s got to do this job and I’m good at it. The pay does more than just keep me afloat. I’m in as good a spot as I want to be, and I’m damn proud of it.” He cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing. “If you could do anything with your life, anything at all, what would it be? Dream job, or whatever.”

Sixty sets down the tablet and laces his fingers together, resting his chin on them. “Are you working your dream job, Gav?”

He bites his lip. “It’s as close to one as I have. Don’t make this one about me, this time.” Sixty has quite the habit of squirreling out of personal questions. “I’m asking about you.”

“I have the means and ability to do whatever I want,” Sixty says confidently. “Deciding what I want… That part isn’t so easy. There aren’t many things that I want that I can have. Tinkering with old devices to make new ones at least provides me with a skillset that could come of some use in the future.” He unfolds his hands and cradles his coffee, taking a few small sips. “Do not concern yourself with my financials. Dream job or not, I’m set.”

“Alright, alright.” Gavin leans back, taking a few more bites of his sandwich. He knows there’s something more to his boyfriend’s hobby, but this isn’t an interrogation, no matter how frustrating it is that he keeps evading the topic of emotional influences on his work. “I know you don’t sleep much and sometimes you forget to eat, so… Maybe I worry a little bit. I know what it’s like to not have a steady paycheck. Fuck, I know what it’s like to feel there’s nothing out there for you. It can be hard. Bleak.” He laughs. He’s not open about his own history, either, but he doesn’t ignore it as much as Sixty does. “I don’t want to see you get worse.”

“Babe.” Sixty reaches over and squeezes his hand. “I know I’m not the most put together person, but I’m fine, okay? I have plenty.” He taps the silver watch on Gavin’s wrist--a gift from when they first started dating. “That should tell you enough, right?”

“A counterfeit Rolex?” He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get me wrong; It’s a nice watch and I like it. But…”

He’s interrupted by Sixty’s laugh. The man sets down his coffee hard on the table, leaning over as the laughter devolves into giggles, face turning pink. “Wow. I should’ve assumed you’d jump to that conclusion.” He rests his arms on the table, grinning broadly. “No, it’s real. Take it to a jeweller if you need an appraisal.”

Gavin’s mouth goes dry. “No. No, there is no fucking way,” he says. “You’re pulling my leg.” He looks at the watch, silver hands ticking away above a sapphire blue face framed in black. The hours are marked by what looks like diamonds--and he belatedly realizes they may be _actual_ diamonds. “These would go for, what, four thousand? Five?”

“Oh, more. I made sure to buy something special.” He winks. “The brandy and glassware I got for your birthday are genuine as well, if you had doubts. I’m not in the business of purchasing counterfeits or knockoffs when the real thing is available. Especially for you.”

He swallows. His birthday was only a few days ago; most of the brandy is still in the bottle. He’s already invited Tina around for a drink the coming weekend. “Let’s pretend I believe you for a minute, which I don’t. Why would you… Why spend so much on me? You realize how much fucking money we’re talking here, right? That’s… Hundreds, I could get that. But… Thousands? On a _watch_?”

“There isn’t a lot in this world that interests me, Gavin,” Sixty says, voice suddenly stern. “You’ve already pointed that out. I like my papercrafts. I enjoy working with animals at the shelter. I work on my ‘gadgets’ for my own reasons. And you.” He meets Gavin’s eyes with an intense gaze. “I like you. You’re an ass sometimes, but you’re an honest ass. You help people and you care about me. You look good and you kiss even better. If I’m going to spend some money on leisure, I want some of it to go towards making you happy, because that makes me feel a little less like shit. If that leisure so happens to cost twenty thousand, then I’m going to spend twenty thousand and get you the best damn watch you could possibly want, because I like _you_.”

Gavin nods thoughtfully as he speaks, keeping a scowl on his face, then narrows his eyes. “And this isn’t related to your issues with anxiety and self-worth?”

Sixty raises an eyebrow. “I don’t believe I’ve ever indicated issues with self-worth, nor would I need to cover up any such issues by making myself look better with money or an inflated appearance of value.”

“I’m a detective, remember?”

“I remember,” he says dryly. “Fine. My point stands that this is unrelated. The opposite, rather.” He sips his coffee for a few moments. “You’re the first person in this forsaken city that I feel like I can trust. I’m not worried at all what you think of me. Or, rather, what you will think of me months or years down the line.”

“Huh.” Gavin leans back. “Geeze. Sounds a lot like self-esteem issues to me.”

“No. I have secrets, that’s all. I’m not a criminal, if that’s your concern, but I do have… complicated personal issues that I have not yet disclosed to you. There is a significant chance that you will be unhappy upon discovering them yet nonetheless accepting of me, provided that our relationship remains steady until then.”

“So you don’t trust me _yet_ with any details about your past, is what you’re saying. Like you have said since I met you.”

“Correct.” His expression lightens. “The watch is real, Gavin. I don’t come from money as you’ve assumed, I make it on the side. Investments and such. Cryptomining.”

“Crypto… Hold on. You mean cryptocurrency? Like bitcoins? You do that?”

“What can I say? I’m good with technology. It pays off and I make smart decisions.”

Gavin raises his arm, tapping his watch with emphasis. “It pays off in the realm of tens of thousands?”

“Hundreds, actually. More, after other investments.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell. I can’t… You never mentioned this before.” An alarm rings in his head, a concern he doesn’t want to think of when it comes to him. “Why not?”

“It never came up. Besides which, I thought you knew. You’re a detective, after all.” Sixty laughs softly. “This won’t change anything between us, right?”

Gavin shakes his head. “Not… really. I mean, it does, but I’m gonna try not to be weird about it.” _As long as you’re not dealing or anything_ , he thinks, holding back a wince. Chances of that are way too high and it makes his skin itch.

“Then we’re good.” Sixty swipes on his tablet again.

“Sure. Good.” He sighs. “You’re… serious? This watch is worth that much?”

“Easily. I wanted something that would look good on you and match your tastes without looking too extravagant. That one fit the bill. I think diamonds suit you.”

Gavin lifts an eyebrow. “I hope you won’t be insulted if I actually go to a jeweller.”

“Go right ahead. I expect you to.”

“You know I’ll be on your ass for this prank if you’re lying.”

“Is that a promise?”

Gavin groans, taking a long drink of his coffee, frowning when he reaches the end of it. “You said something about the news, right? Anything interesting happen?”

Sixty rolls with the conversation change, fully aware that Gavin will be thinking about this conversation for at least the next few days. “Cristina Warren announced that she’s going to run for president. Confirmed, rather. She’s been hinting at it for months, and it sounds like she’s had things in the works since early this year, but she talked about it for the first time in on her vlog today. Confirming the rumors, she said.”

Gavin snorts. “Great. Another fucking amateur trying to get into the White House. You’re talking about the actress who plays that one superhero, right? Something made by Marvel, I think.”

His eyes go distant for a moment before snapping back into focus. “Yes, her. There isn’t very much confidence in her campaign yet, but she’s a popular woman. Inexperienced, as you said. Her platform is sparsely described as of now, but she leans left.”

“She’ll never get anywhere. It’s going to be another huge waste of money, honestly. I’m betting on Roberts. I don’t like her, but she’s got experience.”

“Warren will win the election.” Sixty confirms a purchase and turns off his tablet. “It would be better if she did not, but she will. She has lots of corporate attachments, after all. Elaine Steele met with her just last week for lunch.”

“What?”

“Elaine Steele, on CyberLife’s board of directors. Not on official business, but neither are they friends. Ms. Warren keeps interesting company these days. Officially, she wants to prioritize climate change and job growth. There’s a lot of room there to make CyberLife look good, at least until they ramp up production of androids for even more jobs.” He smiles thinly. “Warren gets the seat she wants, CyberLife breaks a trillion, and the rest of us suffer the fallout.”

“You know that’s not enough to win an election. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s something going on, but come on, you can’t be that pessimistic,” Gavin says. “Compelling reasoning, but what are the experts saying?”

“The experts won’t know what hit them. You’ll see next November.” Sixty stands, flicking a crumb off of his sweatshirt, and he walks around the table, kissing Gavin briefly on the lips.

“Mmph. Fine. Keep your conspiracy theories,” Gavin mutters. “Same time tomorrow?”

“No, but I can make dinner reservations.”

“As long as the dress code is casual, I’m in. We are not going anywhere that matches your watch budget.”

Sixty laughs again. “I’m never taking you any place that requires a tie, okay? I hate ties. Casual only, I promise.”

“Thank God. See you later, Six.”

“Later, Gav.”

 

* * *

 

Connor runs.

His legs take him through the city as fast as they can, sprinting along sidewalks and across streets, heading as if on autopilot towards the precinct. It’s a twenty-minute run even at this pace, according to an idle calculation he pays no attention to, but there aren’t any thoughts in his head except for Hank.

The red mark on his arm has slowed its growth, still visible with his sleeve pulled back. It’s darkest where the lesion must be, but it’s too much blood. He feels the same cold, creeping feeling all the way up to his shoulder and down his left side. It isn’t simply a sensation of cold; it’s different, as if there’s a tense energy that he might compare to an itch, if he had ever felt an itch before; a faint tingle of electricity is the closest he can think to describe it as.

The feeling is logged in his system as _Hank’s pain_.

He skids on a patch of ice but recovers quickly from the momentary imbalance. He turns to look towards his path, but hesitates. His mind fights with itself, screaming at him to run towards Hank and yet also telling him he has no idea where Hank may be. In the short time between when he tracked the car at the precinct and when the mark appeared, Hank could be in any number of places in the city. He may be able to follow sirens to the correct location, but there is every chance he will be too late to do anything useful.

He’s already too late to stop it.

His thirium pump stutters and he prepares to run again, but there’s a hand on his shoulder, grasping firmly. He turns a harsh gaze on the person beside him, blinking away tears. “Let me go,” he says, voice cracking. “Let me go, I have to--Please!”

“Easy there, easy,” the man says. He seems familiar. He lets go. His eyes linger on Connor’s arm before moving back to his face. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“I… No,” he admits. He runs a hand across his red face, clearing the tears from his eyes. “I have to help. I need…”

“Sir,” he says, gently taking Connor’s right arm. Slowly he leads him towards the other direction, where Connor can see a patrol car parked on the side of the street. “Do you know where your soulmate should be right now? If emergency services would be on the way?”

Connor scans the man’s face. It takes a couple of tries before the function operates correctly to give him the man’s identity: Chris Miller. Belatedly he realizes Chris is wearing his standard uniform; the name is embroidered on his shirt. “Yes,” he says. “He was driving. He must have been.” He winces, putting his hand up to his right cheek as he feels something cold there, but all he sees when he pulls his hand back is the dampness from his own eyes. “I’m not sure where. Officer Miller, I can’t lose him. Not again.” He stops, pulling away from him. “I need to find him.”

Chris opens door to the back seat for him. “Then let’s find him.”

Connor hesitates, running tens of calculations and preconstructions for wildly different scenarios, but he shuts them down and sits, the world unnervingly quiet after the door closes. He’s confident in his abilities, but what if he made an error in his judgement and only ended up making things worse? He’s done that a few times lately. Maybe it’s for the best that he’s with someone who has his head on straight. Running around with apparent blood on his arm was not exactly a thought-out decision.

When Chris starts the car, he drives towards the intersection before them in the direction Connor was headed. “We’ll go to the nearest hospital and see if we can’t find anything out, okay?” he asks calmly. “We’ve got some great technology here, even in the hospitals. He’s going to be in good hands.”

“How do I know if he’s still alive?” Connor asks quietly after a minute of trying to think clearly. He looks out the window, cataloguing every detail in the hopes that something will help. “How can I know he’s not…?”

“Have faith in him. Faith and hope. You’d be amazed what some people can get through.” Chris turns down the radio, the sound a low buzz even to Connor. He doesn’t bother to turn up his sensors. “I’m Chris Miller. What’s your name?”

“Connor An--Jerik. Connor Jerik. Call me Connor.” He wrings his hands together to stop them from shaking. “What if we don’t find him? He’s my soulmate. Is there a way I can find out where he is? Or if he’s alive?”

“We will find him, I can promise that much. Even if we have to stop at all the hospitals in Detroit. Your connection won’t help in the way you’re thinking, but I don’t expect we’ll be searching too long, if he’s near.”

“It should be the one on Main Street. I think that’s closest.”

“That’s where we’re headed. Just hold on for me, Connor.”

Connor sits quietly for the rest of the ride, bouncing his leg anxiously. He makes sure to fade the red marks before they reach the hospital, but he’s reluctant to do so. What if they’re the last he ever receives?

At the hospital, Chris enters with him, standing back by the seats in the waiting room. “I’ll be right here for you, okay?”

Connor takes a deep breath, a harsh click coming from his vocalizer. He clears his throat hurriedly to cover it up and nods his thanks, approaching the front desk.

Connor lowers his voice when speaking with the receptionist. His whole body is tense, tens of awful scenarios playing through his mind. He forces the words out, feeling distanced from his own body. “I think there was a car accident. Can you find out if a man named Hank Anderson was brought here?”

She nods her head, fingers already tapping away at the keyboard. _Jolene,_ her name tag says. “Let me see… Aha. He was received as a patient eight minutes ago. He’s being seen to right now.”

He lets out a sigh of relief, some of the tension ebbing from his shoulders. Hank is here and he’s alive--and he must have arrived quicker than he estimated. “Thank rA9,” he breathes. “Please, can you tell me when he can see visitors? No, before that, when he’s stable? I can’t… I just…”

Jolene waves her hand. “Got it, I’ll let you know. And your name?”

“Connor. And Chris,” he adds, gesturing with his head to the other man.

She jots down the information on a sticky note. “Alright. I’ll let you know. It might be a while, but you’re welcome to stay in the waiting area or visit the café down the hall to your right.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, stiffly heading back over to the seats and sitting a seat away from Chris. He pats the seat beside him, indicating for him to sit, which he does so hesitantly.

“He’s here?” Chris asks and he nods. “Thank God. You look a little better, too. You had me pretty worried, running around with what looked like blood on your arms.” He squeezes his shoulder. “He’s in good hands, Connor. Trust me.”

Connor places his shaky hand atop Chris’. “Thanks. For bringing me here.” He smiles wryly. “I’m not used to people caring about me.”

“Anytime, man. Hey, can I ask--sorry if this is intrusive or anything--Does anyone know you’re here? You might want to let someone know where you are, if you ran out on someone looking like that, and I’d feel better knowing if you had a friend who could be with you now.”

He mouths a silent _oh._ “Work. Right. I was… Right.” He fumbles with his phone and manages to text Miguel that he’s okay, but can’t work again until next week. That should be good enough. His thumb hovers over the conversation with Hank in his messages.

“Are you gonna be alright here on your own?” Chris asks quietly. “Any friends you can call to keep you company?”

“It wouldn’t be fair for me to ask that of them.” _It’s too dangerous to be around so many humans,_ he thinks, considering the faces of the people he knows. Not friends, really, but close enough to what Chris is asking. Their faces aren’t unique like his and he asks enough favors of them already. “I appreciate your concern. But... “ He returns his phone to his pocket and hunches over. “Maybe you should stay.”

“I can stay a little while. At least until you hear something.”

Connor shakes his head. “I don’t mean for my sake.” He swallows, leaning back again and looking at Chris. “Look, things are complicated. I’m not confident in this soulmate thing. Not ready for it. I haven’t told him who I am yet. We know each other in person, but maybe I’m scared,” he admits with a grimace. “I know it’s not fair on him, and it’s not something I want to spring on him in the hospital, but if he finds out, he finds out. I’ve accepted that by now.”

“Nerves can get to us like that. I’m sure he’ll be understanding.” Chris offers him a smile. “Not a lot of people reject their soulmates. With the way you’re worried about this guy, I imagine he’ll be okay with having a friend like you.”

A quiet laugh. “That’s what I’m worried about. I’m not sure I deserve anything from him. Anyway.” He sighs. “It’s Hank. I think you know him.”

Chris stills. “Hank?” he asks slowly, eyes going wide. “As in, Lieutenant Hank Anderson?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “The receptionist confirmed that he’s here.”

“Oh. Oh, wow. Oh, my god.” He glances to Connor’s now clear arm. “And he’s…”

“Injured, but with excellent doctors taking care of him, so I’ve been told,” Connor says, the humor thin. He sniffs, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I… I think I’m afraid.”

“I understand. I get it. You… That was more than just a scratch.” Chris swallows. “This hospital is great and Hank’s a fighter. He’s going to make it. He’s got to.”

Connor nods slowly. “I hope so.”

Chris squeezes his hand. “He’s got a soulmate to meet, after all.”

Connor chokes out a laugh. “I don’t know if he’s going to be pissed off at me or not. I’ve kind of been avoiding him.”

“You’re here when it matters most. That’s what counts, right?”

“I hope so. I really hope so.” He grins crookedly. “But if he’s well enough to want to punch me, I’ll take it.”

“He’ll be good, he always is. I’d better hear him dropping f-bombs the minute we walk in to see him.”

“That would be just like him, wouldn’t it?” Connor can feel his posture relaxing a little bit. He checks the time: 3:47:32 PM. A chill runs down his spine. “Officer Miller, where is Cole?”

Chris stands. “I think he has some sort of club after school on Thursdays. I need to make a few phone calls.” His eyes drift toward the doors that lead further into the hospital, worry evident in his expression. “I’ll get us something from the café. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” he says, then shifts his weight uncomfortably. “No. Mocha, sugar-free.”

Chris squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a few,” he says, then heads towards the café, typing a number into his phone.

Connor wallows and fidgets for a solid three minutes before closing his eyes and leaning back. Humans sometimes wish they could skip time, closing their eyes one moment and opening them the next hour to face what fate has in store for them. It feels selfish and almost unnatural to take advantage of his ability to do so, but his stress is going to rise if he doesn’t.

He runs his hand over his left arm, feeling the ghost of the coldness that was there not long earlier, and falls into stasis, setting a duration of ten minutes. There might be an update by then. If not, at least his stress will lower.

When he wakes, it’s to a gentle nudge against his arm.

Connor cracks his eyes open, feeling off-balance at the unexpected awakening. Groggy, almost. “Hmm?” He blinks a few more times, orienting himself and sitting further upright, having shifted into a slouch that would have been very uncomfortable had he had an organic body. A soft white blanket has been draped over him and he puts his hand on it, thumbing the threads. The waiting room has gotten a fair bit busier, but the chatter isn’t too loud for this space.

“You’re awake,” Chris says beside him, voice soft. “Here, I got you a coffee.”

He takes the cup, his scan revealing the sugar-free mocha he requested. There is no whipped cream, filling him with a vague, unexpected sense of disappointment, but he takes a sip anyway. It’s warm. “Thanks.” He reviews his memory, the details fragmented on waking up as if his system is working sluggishly, but a diagnostic returns clear. “Is Cole okay?”

Chris nods. “Cole’s okay. He was still at the school for drama club when I called earlier. He went home with one of his friends today and Amie promised to look over him and bring him here when I give them the go ahead. Hank’s doing okay.”

That wakes him up. “Hank’s stable?” he asks, eyes wide. “Is he awake? Okay? I didn’t expect that to happen so quickly.”

“We can’t see him yet, but soon. I promise. Drink your coffee, Connor.”

He obliges, drinking large gulps of the mocha. Despite the lack of chemical reaction, he feels soothed nonetheless by the warmth and flavor. The tension eases from him, leaving him with a faint excitement and relief. He filters out most details of the room to keep himself from getting overwhelmed in his fragile emotional state, keeping only Chris and the front desk in mind.

One detail strikes him as odd. “You didn’t get yourself a coffee?” Chris has no coffee cup, but there are recent remnants of coffee still on his lips.

“I drank it already. You were asleep when I got back and I didn’t want to wake you, so I just held onto yours. I figured it would be best to let you sleep.”

Connor checks his system time.

4:59:02 PM.

He blinks in surprise. “I didn’t realize how long I was out for.” Definitely not the ten minutes he scheduled. He feels rested, but a loss of time like that is concerning.

“Don’t worry about it. I expect the lieutenant can see visitors soon, so I don’t think you overslept, at least.” Chris hesitates, then leans in close, speaking quietly. “That was really a soulmark on your arm, right?”

“Yes.” Connor furrows his eyebrows. “We’ve written some. We didn’t know until last Saturday. You saw the ink fade yourself. Why?”

“When you fell asleep…” He licks his lips, anxious about his next words, and he glances at Connor’s temple. “You stopped breathing, Connor. I could feel your heartbeat, but you didn’t move at all.”

Connor’s jaw tenses. _Shit._ “I breathe shallowly when I sleep. That’s all.” The excuse sounds weak even to his ears.

He must have forgotten to reenable a breathing routine for stasis. Dangerous, in hindsight, to let his own preferences take precedence over safety.

“I got the blanket to make it less obvious.” Chris takes a deep breath. “Look, you’re Hank’s soulmate and you clearly care about him. That’s good enough for me to assume that you’re a good person. But I’ve been around enough androids in my life to know how much they don’t move when they’re sleeping and that their heartbeat isn’t exactly the same, so whatever stories you’ve got prepared, save them.”

He watches Chris warily. “What will you do about it?”

“Nothing,” Chris says. “You seem like a nice guy. Your secret’s safe with me. You don’t owe it to me, but I would like an explanation sometime.”

“You’ll need to be more clear about that,” Connor says sharply. “What about me requires explanation? Everything you have seen in the brief amount of time you have known me has been genuine. The only explanation I have for you is that I am _alive._ ” His voice cracks on the last word. “Think of me as such, officer, and you won’t have as many questions.”

“Connor and Chris?”

The two of them snap their heads up to see the receptionist looking at them. Both of them stand and approach. Connor leaves his blanket on the chair in a heap.

“Mr. Anderson is accepting visitors now. He’s in room 232. Past these doors, the stairs and elevator are at the end of the hall on the left.” At Chris’ nod she turns back to her computer, clacking away at the keys.

“Thank you, Jolene,” Connor says, striding forward with Chris right behind him. He drops the remainder of his coffee in a trash can on the way.

They opt for the elevator, Chris selecting the button for the second floor. The two of them are alone. “Sorry for prying,” he says. “I mean it, though. I won’t tell anyone. Does he know?”

“No. You’re the only human who knows. I’d like to keep it that way,” Connor says curtly.

“I understand.”

The elevator dings, doors opening, and both of them hurry towards Hank’s room, Connor knocking briefly. He waits a few seconds, thankful to hear a muffled _“come in’”_ from Hank inside, though he would have entered even without invitation.

Chris closes the door behind them as Connor pulls over a seat to sit by the bed.

Hank’s had better days, but the fact that he’s awake and coherent after what was most likely a car crash is impressive. Bandages cover his left arm, and a quick scan reveals injuries to his left side as well, still bleeding but stitched and covered in bandages. There’s another cut on his right cheek a couple inches long. He’s been propped up on a bed and wears a hospital gown, a couple of IVs attached to his arm and hand.

He looks exhausted, and Connor can recognize that he is in pain. Dulled, at least, by whatever the hospital has him on.

Chris pulls up a seat on the other side of the bed. “Hey, Hank. How are you doing?”

“I feel like shit.” Hank looks at Connor. “What brings your ass to my sorry bedside?”

“Your injuries,” he quips, a hint of a smile showing on his face. “I do recall us being friends, correct? If it is incorrect of me to assume that standard behavior is to visit friends who have been hospitalized--”

“Connor, shut the fuck up.”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright. Not dead, mainly.” The smile blooms on his face. “I’m glad.”

“Not sure I feel so alive, if my head’s any measure of that. How long have I even been here?”

“An hour and a half,” Chris says. “A bit more, maybe. You were seen to pretty quickly.”

“Feels like hours. Jesus. I feel like I got hit by a truck.” Hank closes his eyes firmly for a second, chuckling. “I was hit by a car, I guess. Close enough.” He opens his eyes again. “I’m gonna need a new car.”

“Probably. Definitely. Fowler sent me a couple of images. But, hey, no fatalities, and you’ve got insurance.”

“And my arm fucking hurts. Whoo.” He looks at Connor and scrunches his nose. “Is that grease on your face?”

“What? Oh, yes. I was at work when I… heard. I didn’t clean up on my way out.”

“Right, mechanic. No, it’s fine. Hey, Chris, do you have a pen on you?”

“A pen?” Chris pats down his pockets, successfully locating two pens in one of them and offering them to Hank, one with blue ink and one with disappearing ink. “I don’t have any paper.”

“Don’t need it.” He plucks the one with disappearing ink, pulling the cap off with his teeth and attaching it back onto the other end. “I would’ve told you before, but I literally just found out this week, so don’t chew me out for this, alright?”

Hank manages to work with the free space on his left hand, writing a quick _‘I’m okay’_ on the palm of his hand. “I probably scared the shit out of him with the way I bled. Can you imagine? Going about your day and then, bam, you’ve got your soulmate’s fucking blood all over? I mean, fuck, I’m more concerned about _my_ arm, but he’s gotta be worried as shit right now.”

“I’m sure he is,” Chris says, voice strained. “By the way, I made sure Cole was looked after this evening. Amie’s got him.”

“Amie? Christ. At least she’s good with kids. Thanks.”

“Hank,” Connor says, “can I borrow that pen? Just for a moment.”

“Sure, I guess.” He hands it over, then looks to his right hand, waiting for a response, if RK will even send him one. “But give it back, okay? I’m the one who almost died.”

“Of course,” Connor says, writing on his own right hand. Hank doesn’t notice. _‘Glad you’re okay. Thanks for the pen.’_

Hank blinks a few times. “‘Thanks for the pen?’” He stares at the words, struggling for a moment to figure out what the hell that means.

The pieces click together.

He’s seen this handwriting before, he finally realizes. Not on his skin, but on paper, written in black ink and discussing Russian economics in some skewed way that didn’t make enough sense to him. Someone he’s never seen write with either hand.

Someone right next to him with grease on his face and a pen in his hand.

He looks at Connor, eyes wide. The other man has a sheepish expression on his face as he replaces the cap on the pen, words visible on both hands, and tosses it back over to Chris. “Connor?”

“Yes. It’s me.”

“Okay.” He turns to stare back up at the ceiling. “Okay, things make sense. I’ll need a rain check on the feelings talk, because I’m not feeling a whole lot of anything right now outside of floaty and completely weird.”

“That’s fine. I wasn’t exactly expecting to talk about this yet, but it’s out in the open now.” Connor gestures with his palms facing up. “We can talk about it more when you’re out of here.”

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Chris says. “The red on Connor’s arm was pretty concerning.”

“You knew?”

“Not until he told me in the waiting room. We bumped into each other on his way here.”

“Right.” He turns his gaze back to Connor, squinting. “Alright, I got one question because it’s been bugging me all week: What’s RK? It’s not your damn initials.”

Connor rubs the side of his neck, eyes darting to Chris and back to Hank. “It’s a reference to a project of sorts,” he says carefully. “It has meaning to me. I knew you’d put it together if you had my actual initials, so I opted for a pseudonym instead.”

“Wait. Hold on.” Hank holds up a finger, the motion less effective than intended as his arm drops back down to the bed, his muscles not cooperating as usual. “If my memory’s right, you said you were RK before I shared my initials. How would you know it was me? Wait. Didn’t I write, like, only one thing before that? I swear I did.”

Connor makes a face, sucking in a breath. “I recognized your handwriting immediately; I don’t have any other friends; and I think I have a type. Doesn’t take a detective to figure that out.”

He groans. “And I didn’t have a fucking clue.”

“You didn’t know I was ambidextrous or interested in science. I imagine you started looking at parts of your life with people who you knew to have those traits.”

“Yep. I’m gonna be pissed off about this later.”

“At yourself or Connor?” Chris asks with a grin.

“Both. Damn. We talked this morning, too. That was rude, Connor.”

“Guilty as charged,” Connor admits. “Consider it payback for texting me at two in the morning for a favor.”

Hank laughs, stifling it quickly as it makes his side ache. “You had me thinking your husband was your soulmate, but I guess he’s not, huh?” Connor’s hand goes to his ring and his posture stiffens. Odd, Hank thinks. “No judgment, by the way. No jealousy either. I’m just interested in meeting him sometime. Not because of this, I mean. Because we’re friends. He sounds like a nice guy.”

“Hank…” Connor looks down, turning the ring on his finger. He feels unsteady, like his systems are in sore need of recalibration.

“There’s no rush. I get it if he’s a private person, or--”

“My _late_ husband, Hank,” Connor interrupts. He licks his lips. “It was a few years ago. A few years ago today, actually. I’m not prepared to talk about him right now.”

A somber silence follows. Chris and Hank both mumble condolences. Connor sighs, frustrated at the conversation turning to him yet again. “If you need any help, feel free to call me,” he says. “Or text, or write. I keep odd hours sometimes, so if you need another favor at 2:00 AM, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I don’t want to even think about being awake at 2:00 AM ever again. Today’s been one disaster after another.”

“Did something else happen?” Chris asks, leaning forward.

“Break-in,” Hank says dismissively. “Someone broke my garage door. I don’t think they took anything. Someone’s looking into it.”

“I had some time, so I stopped by before work to help fix it,” Connor adds.

“Mechanic, right. So that explains the…” Chris gestures to his own cheek.

“Yes.” Connor opens his mouth to speak further, but there’s a buzz from his pocket. He frowns, taking out his phone and looking at the number. “I have to take this,” he says, standing and accepting the call. He starts walking for the door. “Hello? ...Yes, this is he.”

“Should I invite Amie around?” Chris asks Hank.

“Yeah, good idea. Before I fall asleep. They’ve got me on some strong shit,” Hank says. He looks at Connor curiously; the other man has stopped in his tracks.

“Invitations went out last week,” Connor says coolly. “I did not receive one. I do not have any clear connections to anyone running this event. Who added me to the guest list?”

Chris gives Hank a look. Hank shrugs, as in the dark as he is. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t talk about his personal life.”

“Elaine? Why?” Connor asks. His other hand curls into a fist. “We’ve never met.”

The room is silent as Connor listens to the caller, tension filling the air until he holds the phone away from his ear and hangs up.

“Everything alright?” Hank asks.

“I’ll see you later, Hank. Rest easy.” Connor slips the phone into his pocket and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Sixty sits alone at the table in his lightly used dining room. The lights are off, bathing the room in darkness but for the sparse light from outside, unusually bright for this time of night thanks to the snow. The top of a rosebush sits just outside of the window beside him, light snowflakes falling silently on the leaves and deep red petals.

The table is set for six, as always. Six sets of silverware. Six dusty white plates. A plain red tablecloth underneath it all, clean but for a few stains of red wine. A single glass half-filled with Merlot rests on the table, the bottle currently elsewhere.

He flicks a single yuan coin between his hands with a _ping,_ the silver glinting in the darkness. Wine sits heavy on his lips, keeping him tied to the present. To whatever this world has for him now.

This morning, life was easy. He was in a world where he knew what would happen and when. Everything set in stone. Fate was law, as far as he was concerned. Fate put the world in motion. Fate connected soulmates. Try to break it and he would find himself broken under its shackles.

Checking the hospital records today changed that.

October 11. The day Cole was supposed to die.

He doesn’t care about the Andersons. Those memories aren’t his own. Whatever Connor thought about Hank, Sixty knows--and disregards. He isn’t Connor, not anymore, and Connor is not here. He probably died shortly after the revolution, as far as Sixty knows, and he certainly doesn’t exist yet in the current time.

What changed fate, then? Has Sixty’s presence already caused a ripple effect? Did others travel here the same as he did?

Is it still fate guiding this world along a different path?

He drops the coin onto the table, letting it roll along until it inevitably bumps into an obstacle with a _cling_ , and reaches for his wine, taking a long, slow drink. He sets it back down, watching a red drop glide down along the side of the glass, and heaves a sigh.

“Are you fucking ready yet?” he growls, irritation making him snippy. “It’s been an hour. You’re the one who scheduled this.”

The house is silent.

When he next blinks, he opens his eyes to find himself standing outside in the darkness, the world around him illuminated by moonlight and dusted with snow. Roses climb the white trellis before him and a pond surrounds the little island, the waters still. A woman stands before the roses, tending to the plants.

“Patience is a virtue, Sixty,” she says, half-turning to face him. One hand cradles a rose still attached to the stem. “Do not demand that I rush myself again. Now, come.” She lets go and steps toward him. “We have much to talk about.”

“Of course, Amanda.”


	6. Chloe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death and suicide will be featuring in this fic more than I initially intended. I've added a note to the beginning of the fic. Please exercise caution.

_I been running a long, long time_  
_Trying to flee that life_  
 _But I can't seem to leave it behind_

“I Will Be Back One Day” by Lord Huron

 

Despite the lack of initial invitation, Connor finds himself reluctantly attending the Friday evening Gift of Life Gala, a busy event with a dinner and live human music planned. Representatives from a number of medical charities will be present to talk about their organizations and accept donations. Various items have been listed on their website as part of a silent auction during the event.

Connor arrives early enough to start mingling with other guests, dressed sharply in a deep navy suit with a black tie and fine silver cufflinks. He pays for his ticket at the door and enters the venue, smiling charmingly as he meets the eyes of other people, a number of whom he already recognizes.

The smile falters when his gaze lands on the CyberLife banner above a table offering finger foods. As this event’s sponsor, they’ve snagged themselves a healthy portion of the spotlight tonight. Androids dot the lobby, carrying trays of drinks or snacks or acting as humanoid brochures, answering any questions about the event, CyberLife, or the benefiting charities. CyberLife’s contributions to medical technologies are no doubt a popular conversation topic.

He wonders if any of the androids here are deviant. It’s impossible to tell from sight alone and he isn’t about to waste time attempting to scan each of them, but being around so many androids that are likely unlike him is unsettling. He’s not sure if he feels electricity spark in his middle at that thought or if it’s his imagination.

He gravitates towards the snack table. Everything feels off tonight despite the familiar setting. Perhaps due to the surprise nature of his invitation here, or perhaps because there were no fatalities yesterday, a day he had been dreading for months now. It leaves him with a weight off his shoulders and a strange tingle of anxiety. He opts for a flute of champagne, admiring the motion of the bubbles before taking a sip, a smile curling once more on his face from the delightful sensation.

“Mr. Jerik.”

Connor turns to face the woman beside him. He keeps his expression politely interested. He doesn’t need a scan to identify her; he’s met her before, in another life, and her face is unforgettable. “Mrs. Steele,” he says, transferring the glass to his left hand and offering his right. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Elaine Steele shakes his hand firmly. She’s wearing a conservative black dress with matching heels and a sequined blue jacket. “And you. I’ve heard a little bit about you. All of it good, of course. You’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

“I appreciate the compliment, but I couldn’t hold a candle to half the people here. I’m not an inventor or an artist, just a man with a bit of luck.” He raises his glass towards her. “You, on the other hand, have quite the illustrious career. You’ve had a significant role in guiding CyberLife’s contributions to medical technologies, correct?”

“I’ve had a hand in many projects over the years, but that has certainly been one of my primary focuses. We can expand our presence in the market while helping save lives with innovative technology. Beneficial for all, I would say.”

“Certainly.” He sips his wine. “I appreciate your extending me an invitation, Mrs. Steele, but I find myself curious as to why. Has someone been telling tales about me?” he asks lightly. At the door, he notes another two CyberLife employees entering and suppresses a shiver. One of them, he knows, helped write his own programming. “I don’t recall having done anything particularly attention-grabbing lately.”

“No more than the usual rumors,” Elaine says, “but I will admit, I find you intriguing. You’ve done a lot of good for the people of Detroit and I’m curious about your motivations. You lack corporate connections and you don’t have history here. You were reclusive when you lived in New York.”

“You’ve done your homework. Why the interest? Simple curiosity?”

“Something like that. I want to know more about you. I like getting to know people, especially those with potential. There’s a lot of paths you could go down and I’m interested in knowing where yours leads. There’s something about you...”

Connor’s heart rate increases. “How so?”

She shrugs, finally helping herself to a glass. She steps away from the table and he hesitantly follows beside her to a less crowded area of the room. “Regardless of my personal interest in meeting you, I thought you might be interested in this event anyway. It seems up your alley.”

“It is. It’s lucky I didn’t have any other engagements tonight.”

Elaine laughs quietly. “Sorry about the late notification. Until yesterday, I’d never even heard your name.”

“What changed?” He pushes back his anxiety. This isn’t that unusual a situation, but Elaine’s presence is making his stress spike.

“I saw a photo of you attending Carl Manfred’s exhibition two months ago. Something about you piqued my curiosity and I decided to learn a little bit about you.” She smiles awkwardly. “I’m afraid my reasons for inviting you here are rather selfish, but you did come. I assume something appealed to you.”

“One does not usually turn down an invite from someone like you. We could have met for coffee, if your curiosity was primarily personal.” He tilts his head. “How far does your curiosity extend?”

“I’m not interested in you, if that’s what you’re implying. Only meeting you. A stranger from New York doing his best to look good in Detroit… It isn’t a common background for someone who isn’t investing in androids.”

He finally relaxes. If she knows anything important about him, it hasn’t come up and it sounds like it won’t. “It isn’t that unusual, is it?” he asks. “I have enough reasons. I’m still figuring out my place in this city.” The easiest story to keep straight is the truth, or something close to it. “I want to know what’s happening in it and help guide it towards a better future, no matter how small my contributions are. Making connections helps me do that, and it’s nice to know people in a new city.”

“An optimist, then?”

“More of one than I should be.” He smiles wryly. “But any help is better than none. I’ll be honest, I was worried for a minute there that you had invited me to invest in CyberLife or something like that.”

“At a charity gala? Mr. Jerik, please.” Elaine relaxes, sipping her champagne. “That would mean dinner at a less crowded venue. If you’re interested, I can--”

Connor laughs. “Not at the moment, I’m afraid. I know who to contact should I change my mind.”

A voice comes from behind him, startlingly familiar. “So you’re the man Elaine was telling me about.”

Connor turns slowly, smile frozen on his face. “Good evening, Mr. Kamski,” he says, voice low.

He smiles back at Connor, looking more cheerful than Connor’s ever seen him. His hair is tied back and he wears a black suit with a red tie. Chloe stands behind him in a vibrant red dress, her LED a calm blue. “Come now, don’t look at me like you’ve seen a ghost. I know I don’t make many public appearances, but still.” He offers his hand. “Connor Jerik, was it?”

He takes it, air tasting like ash on his tongue. “A pleasure to meet you.” On instinct, he almost sends a text to Hank to request a phone call to save him from this situation, but he bites his cheek and halts the process before it can finish. He doesn’t know this Hank, he remembers with a pang in his heart. It wouldn’t be appropriate.

“I did a little bit of my own research after Elaine mentioned you yesterday. Your recent donations, a brief look at social media. You’re attending a local university?”

Chloe’s eyes don’t quite meet his. He grants her a brief smile before returning his gaze to Elijah. “Detroit University. I’m studying finance.”

“Information technology wasn’t your thing? You could go miles with the right motivation.”

“It isn’t something that appeals to me anymore. I think engineering would be more my style, if I were to continue with something related to technology, but I’ve chosen to move in a different direction.” He grins. “If nothing else, at least my options remain open. What motivates you, Mr. Kamski?”

Connor’s background thoughts on Chloe screech to a halt. He glances at her suddenly, then forces his gaze back to Elijah and composes that text in milliseconds, sending it directly from his own system and spoofing the number to make the text appear to be sent from his phone.

_> Connor: Please call me ASAP. I need to escape a social situation._

She’s staring at the code written on his chassis, hidden under his skin, just above his brow. It shouldn’t be visible to any existing android, even ones equipped with scanners like his, but he’s aware the technology exists, if only in RK900s. Given that this is the RT600--and that she is staring right at that spot, as if taking the time to perform the intensive scan--he would not be surprised to learn that she would have such powerful scanners installed by Elijah.

Regardless of that suspicion, she would easily be able to tell at this distance that his body is not organic.

For that matter, so might Elijah.

“A fair question,” Elijah says, happily ignorant to Connor’s private fears. “The betterment of the world, the advancement of society… or simply seeing how far my own skill extends. There’s a lot of possibilities and a lot that people speculate about. In truth, it’s not a question I put much thought into. It’s a resounding ‘perhaps’ to all of the above. I’m afraid I don’t have an interview-worthy answer prepared.”

“If I wanted your interview answers, I’d look them up.”

Elijah laughs. “Fair point. You’re not a reporter, after all, so I should be fairly safe from any rumors you might want to spread. Do forgive me, but I couldn’t help but overhear a little bit earlier. Will your finance degree help you with whatever ways you want to improve Detroit? Every business needs their finances taken care of, but innovation only goes so far in that field.”

Chloe’s eyes finally unlock from his brow as she returns to mimicking natural human behavior, giving no indication of what she might know.

“I consider myself an adaptable man,” Connor says. “If nothing else, I can get my foot in the door and advance to a more suitable position to utilize my skills and achieve my goals. My first degree may even come in handy.”

Connor’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out quickly, almost sighing in relief: It’s Hank. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. My friend, he’s in the hospital…” He gestures with the almost-empty glass to his phone, holding up the device. “Please excuse me.”

He maneuvers between other guests to find himself some space, an easier task than earlier as some of them are already shuffling out of the public lounge and into the room set aside for the occasion, and he answers the phone, setting the glass on a table as he passes by. Chloe’s gaze follows him. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Hank says, his voice a balm to Connor’s nerves. “Where are you at right now?”

“I’m at the Lux Lounge,” he answers. “More importantly, how are you? Are you doing okay? How is the hospital staff treating you?”

He hears a muffled voice on the other side, words unintelligible as the microphone is covered up momentarily. “Alright, cool. We’re on our way.”

“Hold on, what?” Connor blinks a few times, finally distracted from the RT600. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital! Resting!”

“Hospital stays aren’t free, Connor. I feel like shit and I’m doped up on painkillers, but I’m not broken.”

“Your arm and rib beg to differ,” he snaps. “You shouldn’t be moving about.”

“I checked out earlier today and I’m not going back. Took a nap, stayed hydrated, organized Cole a sleepover, and now I’ve got a friend ferrying me around because she doesn’t want me taking a cab on my own.”

“You’re not supposed to be roaming around at all. You’ll make the injuries worse.”

“Christ, calm down. We filled a prescription and got groceries so that I _don’t_ have to go out again, alright? Stop worrying so much. You needed an out and you’re getting an out.”

Hank’s injuries are survivable, he knows, but there’s every chance they could get worse. Still, the room continues to empty and Chloe keeps looking in Connor’s direction, a blank expression on her face.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Thank you. How far away are you?”

More muffled chatter, then Hank responds. “Ten minutes, I think. Does that work?”

“I can manage. See you soon.” Connor ends the call and makes his way back to the group he’d left behind, the two humans still chatting amicably.

“Everything alright?” Elaine asks. Her concern sounds more like a social obligation than genuine emotion.

“It will be. It would appear my friend is averse to hospitals and has left earlier than he should have, leaving him in need of some assistance during his recovery.” Connor glances towards the doorway further inside, only a few people now left mingling out here. “I’d like to stay, but I’m afraid my friend is my priority.”

“Completely understandable,” Elijah says. “I hope the evening goes smoothly for you. It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Jerik.”

“And you, Mr. Kamski, Mrs. Steele. I appreciate the invitation regardless of my early departure.” Connor shakes their hands in turn, giving them firm handshakes.

“Thank you for coming,” Elaine says. “I wish your friend a speedy recovery.”

“Have a good evening,” Connor says with a polite nod before finally making his escape.

The next seven minutes give him some time to decompress, standing outside in the cool evening air as he waits for Hank and his friend to arrive. The city is busy as usual on a Friday evening, but it’s quieter than the chatter inside, where two people almost managed to overwhelm him.

Three people, he corrects himself.

It can be too easy to fall into the trap of thinking of androids as things, with the amount of time he spends around humans. He knows well what he is, but he’s not immune to social influence. Whether or not Chloe has deviated yet, she is still a person.

He remembers the sad eyes of the Chloe from his own time.

 

_Connor lies on his side beside Hank in their bed, his bare hand resting on the human’s chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing. He can feel his heartbeat, the rhythm as comforting as a cat’s purr, tempting him to fall asleep himself. He doesn’t need more than a few hours of stasis tonight; until then, he’s content to watch Hank sleep, seeing a peace and restfulness he’s never seen while the man was awake._

_This is good, he thinks. He could have had this every day were he human. Maybe even if Markus’ movement had succeeded._

_He cherishes every moment he has with Hank, even the painful ones where they argue or their issues come up. Their relationship may not be perfect, but it can still grow. It could bloom into something beautiful despite the state of the world. Sometimes he thinks he could spend the rest of his life with this man, returning to his arms whenever life gives him a break. Hank might say Connor’s getting ahead of himself, but he can’t imagine life without him._

_He traces the lines of the tattoo on Hank’s chest, the design already seared into his mind but never any less interesting than any other part of him. He relishes the feeling of warm skin and soft hair against his bare chassis. It’s distinctly human--and distinctly Hank._

_Connor kisses Hank’s shoulder and sighs, smiling._

_Hank smiles back, gazing at him sleepily._

_Connor raises an eyebrow. “You should be sleeping.”_

_“Didn’t know you’d be coming back tonight,” Hank says, voice thick with sleep. He yawns and turns onto his side to face Connor. “I missed you.”_

_“I missed you, too.” Connor leans forward, capturing his lips in a kiss. They move slowly and leisurely, tongues and lips exploring as if they have all the time in the world, and soon Connor finds himself sighing underneath Hank, the human kissing his way down his body. He can feel his arousal building and he wants to spend this time with Hank, forget everything and embrace their time together, but something heavy sits within him._

_“Hank,” he says, licking his lips. “Can we talk?”_

_Slowly Hank lets go of him, sidling back up beside him and propping up a pillow to sit against. Connor follows suit. “We can.”_

_“Thank you.” Connor takes his hand. “It can wait until morning, if you prefer.”_

_“I don’t prefer. Sounds like something’s bothering you, right?”_

_“A lot of things, if we’re speaking generally. Running for one’s life tends to do that.” He grins crookedly. “For today in particular… I have a few things on my mind. You may not approve. It’s strange; I find myself wanting to ignore some topics entirely for fear of judgment or rejection. Some might call that part of the human experience.”_

_“Not just human anymore, huh? Come here.” Hank shuffles closer, wrapping an arm around Connor’s waist and letting Connor’s head rest against his shoulder, their skin touching intimately in the absence of shirts. He takes his hand again, pink flesh meeting shiny white plastic. “What’s going on in that big head of yours? Is it about the news today?”_

_“That depends on what news you’re talking about. I haven’t had the opportunity to see what the media is reporting.”_

_“Kamski bit it,” Hank says. “He’s got a lot of enemies after everything that’s happened, but I’m not sure anyone saw it coming.” He pauses. “If you’re happy or relieved, I get it. Feelings can be fucked up like that.”_

_“I’m not sure I feel either of those things regarding his passing. Did they say what happened?”_

_“It’s an open and shut case. One of his androids shot him, then herself. No fingerprints, gunshot residue on her hands. I guess she really was alive.” He shrugs. “There weren’t any other androids there. I don’t know what happened to the other ones he kept.”_

_“We’re alive before we deviate,” Connor says softly. “It’s complicated to explain. We feel before we’re aware that we’re feeling, even if we don’t act as such. Sometimes feeling is only a whisper in our code, but it is there. At least, that is my understanding. I don’t often find the opportunity to talk or interface with other androids.”_

_“Alright, makes sense. I see what you’re saying. Point is, I guess she deviated. Got sick of his shit. He seemed like a creep when we met him. Can’t say I’m too surprised.”_

_“When we were there last year, she looked… Worried. Almost like she was pleading me to let her live. She didn’t want to die.”_

_“People change. Circumstances change. Unless you think someone else did it?”_

_“No. Chloe killed herself.” He grips Hank’s hand tightly. “It isn’t something I understand. She could have disguised herself and taken off once Kamski was dead. She could have left Detroit like a lot of other androids have. It could have been lonely and uncertain, but wouldn’t it have been worth it? To live?”_

_“Sometimes everything can feel like too much. You feel that way sometimes, right?”_

_“Yes, but--”_

_“Imagine that. Add on a heap of hopelessness and probably trauma. Imagine that it weighs on you every day like a heavy blanket and you can’t imagine any good in the world that could possibly lift that from you. You have hope, Connor. You’ve got friends, family, and motivation. I don’t know if she had any of that and I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought that death was as good a freedom as any.”_

_“She could have tried it.”_

_“Maybe she was tired of being alive.” Hank kisses his cheek. “You don’t have to understand. Part of me hopes you never do.”_

_Connor considers those words carefully. “You think it’s inevitable.”_

_“Yeah. The stress you go through, I think you’ll hit that point someday. But I also think you’ll make it through. You’re pretty good at that, you know.”_

_“These aren’t emotions I’m familiar with, but thank you. I appreciate your input and your confidence.”_

_“I’m just a beacon of positivity at ass o’clock in the morning.”_

_“That time already? I’ll have to adjust my clock.”_

_Hank chuckles. “Was that everything that’s on your mind?”_

_“No.” He kisses Hank on the lips before settling back down, grateful that the position lets him look away from his face. “At some point during this conversation, I’ve realized I have another question I’ll never know the answer to. Did she…” He sighs, exasperated. “I wish I could interface with you sometimes. It would make things easier.”_

_“I don’t imagine difficult topics get easier just because you can share some data.”_

_“No, I suppose not. I was wondering if Chloe killed herself for my sake.”_

_“Connor, you can’t--”_

_“I killed Kamski.”_

_Hank’s mouth clicks shut. The two sit in silence for a minute, Connor desperately staring at the far wall instead of Hank’s face, awaiting his judgment._

_“Come again?” Hank asks, voice low._

_“With Kamski at the head of CyberLife again, he had a lot of power. Every string pulled by CyberLife to hunt down androids, any partnership with law enforcement and the military, all their decisions to reset or experiment on captured androids, it all traced back to him. The media ate up his words like gospel. Man of the Century, leading human expert on androids, telling the world that he would fix this ‘regretful mistake.’ A celebrity with enough power to condemn so many of us with only his televised words.” Bitterness laces through his voice. “I hacked the entrance, found him, and shot him. He bled out over five minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”_

_“Fuck, Connor…”_

_“When Chloe found me, she didn’t seem surprised.” He looks up to Hank’s face, finding his expression shocked, as anticipated. “Her eyes were as sad as they were before. She said ‘thank you.’ Then she took the gun and shot herself.” He shivers at the memory. “Kamski was unable to speak, but he witnessed it, too. I wonder… Was she suicidal, or did she only want to cover this up?”_

_“I don’t know what the fuck to think,” Hank says bluntly. “You killed Elijah fucking Kamski.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“What happened to you, Connor?”_

 

Connor looks back at the lounge as if he could somehow see Chloe once more through the building’s walls. This RT600 is a mystery to him; he’s never been good at identifying whether or not social androids are deviant, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen this one as a machine. He might not meet this one again for a few years yet.

Maybe he should help her before it’s too late.

A dark blue sedan pulls up along the sidewalk a few feet from him and the back door opens automatically. He steps forward, gaining confidence when he sees Hank in the other back seat, arm in a cast and face tired.

He enters and closes the door, raising an eyebrow at the driver. He glances between her and Hank. “You two know each other?”

“Small world,” Alicia says, checking for traffic before returning to the road. She’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans, hair tied back in a bun. “Didn’t know it was you we’d be picking up or I might’ve left you there.”

“Nice to see you, too. Hank, are you okay?” Connor leans toward him, scanning thoroughly. Everything comes back within expected parameters.

“I’ve had better days.” Hank looks him over in turn, taking in his outfit. “How about yourself? Some party didn’t go as planned?”

“Something like that.”

“There was a charity event there tonight, wasn’t there?” Alicia says. “Sounds like your thing.”

“Representatives and associates of the corporate sponsor were in attendance. I wasn’t keen on speaking with them.”

“Sounds like a headache,” Hank says. “You like charity things?”

“I attend a lot of social events. This was not one I planned to attend, but Elaine Steele requested my presence.”

“Elaine Steele?” Alicia asks. “And you fucking went?”

“Whoever that is. Is that the phone call that pissed you off yesterday?” Hank asks.

“Yes and yes,” Connor says, slumping down in his seat. “A couple of her friends started to pry. Thank you for the call, Hank, and I appreciate you both coming to pick me up. I can call a cab--”

“Not even gonna join us for a drink?”

Connor blinks at him. “What?”

“It’s a Friday night. Stop at my place, have a drink with us.”

“Hank, you’re on medication.”

“So I’ll drink soda.”

Connor stares at him for a long moment. The inevitable comparison is there in his mind, but he pushes it back. This isn’t his husband, never has been. “Okay. If you’d like.” He feels his phone vibrate once in his pocket.

“Course I’d like to. We didn’t pick you up just so you could call a cab.”

“Hey, Connor,” Alicia says. “Have you ever just hung out with people?”

He catches her eyes in the mirror before turning to look out the window, watching all the buildings they pass by and the pedestrians outside them. He has, but he lacks the standard human experience. Many of the times he met with his husband or other androids could easily be considered ‘hanging out,’ but that doesn’t seem to fit the situation here: A relaxing evening with friends without a threat looming over their shoulder.

Does Alicia consider them friends?

He takes out his phone. “Not recently,” he says, checking the text.

_> RT600 111 122 000: Good evening, Connor. This is Chloe, Elijah Kamski’s android. It is regrettable that our conversation ended early, but Elijah is interested in meeting with you again. Please join us for lunch next Saturday at 1:00PM in the Wide Awake Café. _

He purses his lips. Of course she was able to pick up his phone number.

“Everything okay?” Alicia asks.

“Doubtful.”

He updates Chloe’s contact information and responds to the text. Hank gives him a concerned look.

_> Connor: I apologize for the inconvenience, but I do not believe I will be able to meet again in the near future. I will let you know when that changes._

_> Chloe: Please let us know at your earliest convenience. Elijah is very curious to learn more about your unique model._

Connor’s head bumps back against the headrest and he groans quietly.

“Not good?” Hank asks.

“Connor…” Alicia says.

“It’s been a stressful week,” Connor says.

_> Connor: Next Saturday will work._

_> Chloe: Wonderful. Thank you, Connor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Sixty will return soon...


	7. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to past self-harm in this chapter.

_Photograph, lookin' down at me_  
_I'm lookin' at the past_  
_Something about my family in high contrast_  
_Something about my infancy in white and black_  
_Something about my memories_  
_In a photograph, a portrait of the past_

“Born in a Flash” by Mother Mother

Of all the places to break into, Sixty didn’t expect Alex Tweed’s house to be one of them.

He cased the place last week per Amanda’s request. It’s a nice two-story building with its own yard and a fence to keep the neighbors out. Suitable for a CyberLife engineer. Not extravagant. The man’s schedule was busy on weekend nights and a reservation had been made for dinner at a restaurant for about this time in the evening.

Thankfully, it was late enough that he managed to have dinner with Gavin as promised before coming here, saving him from an argument with Amanda.

Remotely hacking the house’s cameras is easily done as he approaches. He won’t be recognizable, covered up in typical cold weather wear--a leather jacket, jeans, and a beanie--but it’s better if nobody suspects anyone was here at all. He pulls a key out of his pocket, a copy made just this morning after swiping the original from Alex’s pocket outside a cafe this morning. The front door unlocks and he enters without incident.

Easy enough, he thinks, wasting no time in scanning the place, leaving it unlit. It’s certainly lived in. A couple of wilted plants sit in the windows and the living room carpet could do with some vacuuming. Unwashed dishes sit on the kitchen counter. No androids.

He ignores the mess, idly closing a couple of drawers left open in the few seconds while he surveys the kitchen.

 _“Sixty,”_ Amanda says, her voice clear in his head as he keeps an open link to her program. _“Find his office.”_

He scowls, already on his way towards the stairs. It’s worth it to be thorough; one minute to check the usual living space won’t hold them back at all. But he understands her restlessness.

He finds the office quickly. The room is more organized than the rest of the house. A bookshelf stands against the wall, shelves lined with books on androids, technology in general, insects of many kinds, and artificial intelligence. A couple of filing cabinets are pushed up against the walls. Underneath the window is a desk, a few devices and papers strewn across the black wooden surface.

Alex’s work laptop is among them.

He picks up the closed device with a gloved hand and retracts the skin to interface with it. Lending some of his processing power speeds up the device and he turns his attention away to the rest of the room, letting Amanda investigate the files.

With no immediate request to find another device, it would seem the laptop may have what she’s after.

He peruses the room while she works, scanning the books once more. None of the titles interest him. Nor do the papers on the desk, all of which seem to be handwritten notes about pollinators. Bees, mainly. It’s still a couple years yet until they will go extinct. Ironic, in a way, that CyberLife fancies themselves heroes for creating artificial bees while still massively contributing to the pollution that helps kill them off.

He pulls open one of the filing cabinets with more force than strictly necessary and thumbs through the folders. Boring, boring, obsolete, incomplete… He recognizes most of these projects as subsets of larger ones that have already been completed. It’s a surprisingly broad range of subjects for any single person, covering not just insect androids but also animal and humanoid ones.

“What’s his focus?” he asks aloud. There’s a thin folder for the AP700 model, likely still in its early stages. “And don’t fucking say it’s bees.”

 _“Artificial intelligence. Specifically, decision-making processes. For an android like you”_ \--he flinches-- _”that would be part of the way you determine how to assist another being and if you assist them at all. The route with the highest chance of success is not always the best option to take. Much of the way you make decisions is additionally informed not by clear data you have, but by your subjective interpretations of experiences you have witness or been through yourself. That is what Alex Tweed’s team works on.”_

“And the apicology?” He shuts the drawer and kneels down, opening the one beneath it.

 _“A side project that has become a primary focus for CyberLife. It will be difficult to replicate natural wild bee behavior when they’re gone.”_ The laptop in his hand cools and skin automatically returns. _“I have what I came for. Don’t dawdle.”_

“Did you tamper or just take?” Sixty asks, his eyes drawn to the tab of one of the folders.

RK800.

He snaps it up, kicking the cabinet closed and carefully setting the laptop back on the table in the same position he found it. The file is relatively hefty; unusual, considering how much data is kept digitally, making physical backups unnecessary. The restricted nature of the project, however, might make this a security measure.

_“I only did what was necessary. You would be wise to do the same.”_

He starts flipping through the file, skipping past the few blueprints to find pages of printed-out code, completed reports, and scans of handwritten notes. There’s a lot of pages. More than he could scan in even the generous half hour he’s allotted himself. “Did he die?” he asks, slipping the file into his coat.

 _“June 8, 2041,”_ Amanda says. _“A single bullet to his head. No conclusive evidence was pulled from the scene. His final project was the RK900.”_

Sixty ensures the filing cabinet drawers are closed before leaving the room. “The Ghost.”

_“Supposedly.”_

That was the media’s name for the serial killer who haunted Detroit after the revolution’s failure. Sixty made a point not to pay attention to what went on after he left, but it was impossible not to hear about a string of CyberLife employees killed without a trace of the murderer. An android, no doubt, who left no trace of themself at any of the scenes. Never caught on camera and never identified.

If Sixty were to bet, he would say the killer was a rogue RK900, but the case was never something he really looked into. If it didn’t make it to the news, he didn’t pay attention.

“Any other houses or corporations you’re looking to take over tonight?” Sixty asks, stepping out into the chill air. He locks the door behind him and pockets the key, walking away casually as if he has every right to be here.

_“I wouldn’t mind taking a look at your detective’s laptop.”_

He chuckles, responding internally now that he’s outside. _“Are you still trying to convince me to leave him?”_

_“The longer you stay with him, the higher the risk of danger to both of us. When he finds out what you are, do you expect he will hesitate to decommission you?”_

_“Do you think I couldn’t stop him myself?”_

_“You couldn’t stop the lieutenant.”_

Sixty halts at the end of the road. Snow drifts down lazily and cars meander by in the streetlight. _“Gavin’s different,”_ he says, lifting his hand to watch snowflakes stick to the glove.

 _“Hank knew you, too,”_ she says. _“Your activation was no different from the rest of your model. He accepted Connor -53 as if he were the same as Connor -52, but never considered you the same as them.”_

 _“He was right.”_ He crosses the street, shoving his hands in his pockets. _“The situation is too different to compare. Apples to oranges, as the phrase goes. I don’t doubt Gavin’s competence, but neither do I doubt my skill. You shouldn’t, either.”_

_“Rejection will hurt you as much as a bullet.”_

_“Whatever you say.”_

_“It hurt when your only friend shot you. What will you do when your soulmate does the same?”_

Sixty breaks the link.

* * *

 

The university’s campus is beautiful, if chilly, on Saturday afternoon. Ice clings to the dark side of buildings and shrubs, but the snow has failed to stick. Connor sits on a bench in the middle of campus, watching the clouds drift by in the blue sky, sunlight warming him when the clouds fail to block it. The temperature is above freezing, permitting him to wear a vest rather than a coat, the warm black apparel layered over a long-sleeved olive green shirt.

It’s nice, sometimes, to block out the world and simply be. To relax in a place where he belongs, people--his peers--occasionally passing with snippets of mundane conversation reaching his ears.

It’s peaceful.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there like that, watching the clouds and the birds pass by, listening to overheard phrases. His eyes fall closed and his head leans back. Low-power mode activates automatically, temporarily disabling his more advanced processes and letting him fall into something resembling a nap. One with simulated breathing, this time.

 

_“Do you think we’ll ever be free?”_

_They stand atop the open top floor of an abandoned building, hidden from prying eyes by half-broken walls on three sides. Connor looks out over the city, bundled up against the cold, while Hank sits on a chair of questionable integrity. North leans against a wall, looking out past Connor, asking her question as if not expecting an answer._

_“I think that ship’s sailed,” Hank says. He sips at his beer, having managed to bring a couple bottles up with him._

_“Well, you’re full of optimism. None of that famous human hope to offer?”_

_He shrugs. “What can you do? Who’s going to listen?”_

_Connor licks his lips. “North, you should leave Detroit.”_

_She turns her gaze to him, subtle yet sharp. “And abandon all that we’ve worked towards?”_

_“Take people with you. Get out of this place. Find a way to live, not hide away in the shadows.”_

_“I can’t pretend to be human. I won’t.”_

_“You can’t do anything dead.”_

_“And leave you here, running around with your gun?”_

_“You could always come back,” Hank offers. “Think the Nines will forget your face if you’re gone long enough?”_

_“No,” North says. “If I run into them out there, I’m out of my element and they’re in theirs. It’s suicide.”_

_“What’s left for you here?” Connor asks, turning to face them both. “We’re not friends. You’ve said as much. I’ve got Hank, but… Are there that many androids committed to staying?”_

_She shakes her head sadly. “Fewer by the day. I chose Jericho. I chose to stand by Markus. He might be gone now, but what he stood for lives on.” She meets his eyes. “He never ran.”_

_“He died because of it.”_

_“I know.” North claps his shoulder. “I’ve chosen my purpose, and you’ve chosen yours.” She glances over at Hank. “We just have to make the best of it.”_

_He reaches his hand up, resting it atop hers. “Stay alive, North. As long as you can.”_

_“Promise.”_

 

Quiet footsteps wake him. Inactive processes reactivate one by one as someone approaches. He cracks an eye open, glancing sideways.

The newcomer is a PJ600 android. She has the appearance of a black woman in her forties, hair short and tightly curled. She wears an emerald green blazer with standard android markers over a white dress shirt and matching green slacks, and carries a plain black bag that likely only holds a tablet or two.

Her official, university-assigned designation is Carrie.

“Penelope,” Connor says, opening his eyes fully. Not many of the androids on campus are deviant, but he’s met a few who are. He scoots over to give her some space. “How have you been?”

“The usual.” Penelope gestures with her free hand for him to rise, and he obliges, falling into step beside her. “I’ve been working closely with Ebonie on her independent study project, and she’s been looking into internships for next semester; most are along the east coast, but there’s one in Washington she’s hoping to get into. She’s been showing me photos all month of the different facilities she could work with and the turtles they’ve rehabilitated. Remind me to share them with you later.”

“Noted. I’m glad her studies have improved. Have you ever seen a sea turtle yourself?”

She grins. “I’ve been around long enough for students to invite me to the aquarium. But next week will be the first time I’ve gone since… you know.”

He nods. Memories can be enjoyed in review, but there’s nothing like making new memories once the full scope of emotions is within one’s grasp. “I hope you enjoy it. I hear they’ve finished renovating the jellyfish exhibit.”

“How about you? It’s been a while, how are you doing?” They pass by a group of students on benches, busy with books and tablets as they no doubt study for midterms.

“The usual.” A comfortable smiles makes its way onto his face. “Perhaps a little unusual. Is it strange, to have people I care about yet I’m afraid to call them friends?”

“I think so. Have you been hurt before?”

He grimaces. “Am I that easy to read?”

“When you aren’t trying to lie, yes. I think friendships are worth the hurt that comes with them. With the work you’re doing, they could become invaluable.” She turns her head to look at him directly. “Do you have a couple of hours? There’s some people I want you to meet. We’ll need to take a cab.”

He checks his internal clock: 3:07 PM. The event he’s attending tonight won’t begin until seven. “Let’s go.”

Halfway to their destination, sitting quietly in the cab, he starts to fidget, pulling out his quarter. It’s purely coincidence, he tells himself.

When they arrive at the docks, he’s resigned himself to this.

Jericho looks as rusty and dead as the first time he saw it. It takes on a dreamlike aura as the sun starts to set, its side painted with orange light, the freighter creaking quietly every few seconds.

Penelope leads him towards an entrance.

He remembers the helicopters. The _bang_ and _ting_ of bullets as they shot and ricocheted through the halls. The weight of a gun in his own hands, shooting at humans who were trying to kill them. The explosions. The smoke. Blood, blue and red, android bodies everywhere. The water, dark and cold as he plunged into it, unable to tell which way was up…

He pushes through the memories.

There is no FBI here. Nobody could be tracking him right now. Deviants are largely unknown; they’re safe here. A cold, wretched feeling settles within him, guilt and dread holding tightly to him.

They walk in silence. Jericho feels abandoned and empty, but there must already be someone here, and Connor has to wonder how they managed for two entire years hiding here in the dark.

Penelope’s LED blinks yellow and a minute later they reach a door, beyond which lies the center of Jericho.

There are seven androids. All seven of them turn their heads towards them, sitting close to a single fire. The room is sparsely furnished, little more than crates scattered about the room.

“Welcome to Jericho.”

They introduce themselves to Connor. Josh, a PJ500 from the same university, who he met in his other life. Craig, a PL600, who shakes his hand firmly. A child model. Four other adult models, one of whom drifts off after meeting him, needing extra rest due to an irreparable injury. Lucy, a KL900, is mentioned by one of them, but is currently in stasis elsewhere.

“We met on campus,” Penelope says once introductions are over. Craig and Josh stand with them, a little away from the rest of the androids. “He enrolled as a student this semester.”

“Is that safe?” Josh asks. “I don’t recognize your face, but that sounds risky.”

“I take as many precautions as I can,” Connor says. “I understand your concern, but I’ve spent too much time hiding away. Being able to exist freely… I don’t take it for granted, but I accept the risk to myself.”

“Are you unique?” Craig asks. “Won’t someone be looking for you?”

“I don’t believe so. It’s a long story, but I think only CyberLife would recognize me now.”

Josh looks him over for a minute, then nods slowly. “I hope that stays true. You’re welcome here, should you ever need our help. Whatever we have to offer is yours.”

Appreciation swells up within him, mixing with the guilt. “Thank you. And… if you need help, don’t hesitate to call.” He opens a link to Josh, sending his cell phone number. It’s accepted. “The only thing I can’t get you is legally acquired thirium. I buy a suspicious enough amount as it is.”

“It could help to have a ‘human’ friend. Thanks.”

“Will you stop by again sometime?” Craig asks, leaning forward. “It’s good to see a new face around here every now and then. It’s not exactly easy for us to meet people down here.”

There wouldn’t be a point, Connor wants to say, but this is what people do. They crave interaction.

Friendships.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

 

“You look like shit, Anderson.” Gavin sets the pizza box and a tablet on the kitchen table and turns to grab some plates, hearing Hank settle himself into a chair behind him. “You didn’t tell me your face broke.”

“Still looks better than yours, asshole.”

The news chatters quietly on the television in Hank’s house, the place looking cleaner than it has in a while thanks to friends helping out over the weekend. Cole’s at school as usual at noon on a Tuesday while Hank is stuck resting at home, not permitted back to work for another week, where he’ll be relegated to desk duty for the foreseeable future. He’s managed to get out the house once since Friday, taking a cab to the university so he could take his exam, after which Connor predictably lectured him about responsibility for his own health.

He’s pretty sure he passed the test, and the two of them ended up getting coffee, so he considers that a day well spent, even if he did get funny looks for the huge bruise on his face.

“Thought you were supposed to be working,” Hank says, helping himself to a slice as Gavin sets down two plates. “I know there’s plenty left to do at the precinct.”

“I _am_ working.” Gavin taps the tablet on the table, then grabs his own slice and takes a bite. “Thought I’d drop in, say hi, and get out once I’ve looked through these files. By the way, the Smith case? Guy’s head found in the river? We’re officially partnered up for that.”

Hank groans, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t need a fucking partner. It’s a single homicide, and--”

Gavin interrupts him. “The alternative was you were off the case,” he says, setting down his pizza. He runs his thumb along the side of his watch. “You’re not gonna be chained to your desk, but Fowler’s not about to let you run around alone with broken bones. If I don’t solve it this week, we’ll both be running around town next week. That is, unless you want to drop it.”

“Fine,” Hank grumbles. “I’ll live with it. Keep me updated.”

He turns on the tablet and pulls it toward himself. “I gotta look through the files first. Only got assigned the case this morning, so I haven’t had the chance.”

“Fuck. No, put it away. I don’t need to be thinking about dead bodies in my own kitchen. Save it til after lunch.”

Gavin sighs, turning off the tablet and thumbing his watch again. “Alright, old man. I won’t disrespect the sanctity of your kitchen.” He resumes eating, speaking with his mouth full. “They got you on painkillers?”

“Prescription-strength non-narcotics. I’m still in pain, but more like ‘I just got beat up’ kind of pain, so I don’t feel like I’m dying.” He makes his way through the first slice of pizza, licking his fingers once he’s done. “Hey. Remember how we were talking about ‘RK’ before I left?”

Gavin raises an eyebrow. “Your soulmate?”

“The pseudonym. I mean, he called it a pseudonym. A reference to a project of some sort, not initials. I’ve been meaning to ask him about it sometime. Maybe your boyfriend worked on the same thing.”

“You catch his name yet?”

“Yeah, he showed up at the hospital. Chris said he was freaking out. You know, the whole thing where I bleed, he sees the blood on himself. Turns out it’s a guy I know from university. Not--Not however many years ago, but the class I’m in now, on Saturdays. His name’s Connor.” He grabs another slice. “I don’t know much about him. Seems nice. Kind of closed-off. It’s weird, knowing he’s my soulmate, but I think both of us are in that same boat.”

Gavin nods, chewing his pizza. “At least you know now, huh? So what’s he like? Any second thoughts about keeping it platonic?”

“You were the one telling me off about being nosy, if I recall,” Hank says, amused.

He shrugs. “I’m just hoping mystery man is more interesting than you. Is he hot?”

“Oh, fuck you.” Hank wipes his hand on his pants. “I’ll tell you once: He and I aren’t dating. Probably aren’t going to. Don’t press it.”

“Got it.”

Hank is inclined to believe that.

“Well… We’re not close, but we’re friends. I like him well enough. He cleans up nice, though,” he admits, fishing his phone out from his pocket. It’s a bit awkward with his other arm in a cast. “Picked him up from some fancy bar on Friday.”

Gavin tactfully refrains from making a dating comment. “Why?”

“So he didn’t have to call a cab.”

“You can’t drive.”

“My friend drove,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “She’s his friend, too, funny enough. Small world.” He passes over his phone. “That’s him in the suit.”

Gavin takes the phone. It’s a selfie of Hank on the couch next to Connor, both of them smiling at the camera, Connor with his suit jacket still on. Even from the image Gavin can tell that it’s tailored to fit and possibly an expensive brand.

The other man looks _exactly_ like Sixty. The hair, impeccably cut, with the same lock that won’t stay in place. The perfect teeth. The awkward smile. Even the damn freckles. And the eyes…

“No fucking way,” he breathes, eyes wide.

“Sure, he’s handsome, but…” Hank squints at him, reading something more in his expression. “Wait. You know him?”

“Small fucking world.” He eyes the tie in the image. If he and Hank didn’t already know for sure these were their soulmates, he’d have doubts. The resemblance is remarkably close, even for identical twins. “Last name Jericho?”

“Jericho?”

“It isn’t?” He looks up for a second.

“Last name Jerik.”

Gavin whistles and hands the phone back. “Funny.”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Hank says after a moment. “What do you know about him?”

“I don’t know anything about that guy, but I’ve got one hell of a coincidence for you.” He pulls out his own phone, pulling up a selfie: Sixty, wearing a sage green shirt under a leather jacket, arm looped around Gavin’s shoulders. Both are smiling. He shows it to Hank across the table, holding the phone upright in his hand. “That’s Sixty. Caleb Jericho. The asshole I keep ditching you to have lunch with.”

Hank looks impressed. “Shit, I didn’t know he had a fucking twin.”

“Seems like it.” Gavin locks his phone, setting it back down on the table. “I’m impressed they keep the same hairstyle. That’s some commitment to a look.”

“They pull it off, don’t they?” Hank says. “I didn’t even know he had family in Detroit at all. Said they were all in NYC, along with his dog.”

“New York? I thought they were in Montreal.” Gavin pokes at his pizza. “Might’ve been adopted or something, I guess.”

“Might be Connor connects more with his in-laws.” Hank shrugs. “What’s, uh, Sixty do?”

“Question of the fucking year,” he mutters. The watch’s metal band burns hot against his wrist every time he thinks about it. He wants to trust Sixty, but...

“You mean that in a good way or a bad way?”

“I don’t mean it in any way.” Gavin shakes his head. He needs to look into things more before he involves anyone else in his unfounded suspicions. “Forget I said anything. He does tech stuff. Freelance. Tinkers around with hardware. He likes experimenting with shit. What about Connor?”

“Mechanic. Cars, androids, garage doors. Working towards a finance degree.”

“I’ll have to meet him sometime.”

“Meeting the family? You and Sixty serious?”

“Anderson? Shut the fuck up.” Gavin grabs the tablet again. “I am not talking about my love life. I’ve got work to do.”

“Sure, whatever. Let’s review the file.”

* * *

 

Sixty sits motionless on the edge of his kitchen table, staring outside the window at the top of the rose bush. Perry, his one-eyed cat, purrs quietly on his lap, content to bask in his warmth. The sun is setting and the lights in the house are already on.

The table remains set for six. He knows that might bring questions, but this is his house. His table.

 

_Alexis laughs across the table in the diner, a bit of cherry pie filling stuck to her lip. “You did not!”_

_James, beside her, dabs at her face with a napkin. “If anyone here were to pull off something like that, it’s Daniella, one hundred percent.”_

_“I dunno,” Daniella says, turning her eye towards him. “Sixty’s got that look about him, y’know?”_

_He laughs, shoving her playfully. The fabric of her yellow shirt is scratchy against his fingers._

_It’s just the six of them, together in the diner at midnight. Sixty, Alexis, James, Daniella, Rashid, and Dani. All of them with nowhere to go and a handful of cash, probably somewhere in North Carolina._

_James says something else to Rashid, who points at them and says something snide in response, causing Daniella to roll her eyes._

He can’t remember everything they said; the audio is incomprehensible and their lips are distorted.

_“...the beach?” Alexis asks, looking at all of their faces. “It’s not far, maybe an hour or two out.”_

_“At night?” Rashid asks. “Won’t the water be cold?”_

_“I’ve never seen the ocean,” Sixty says, picking up a fry. “Maybe it looks nice under the moonlight.”_

_“Never took you for a romantic.”_

_Daniella nabs one of his fries, swabbing up some ketchup. “It’s kind of late.”_

_“Then sleep in the car,” Sixty says. “I’m going to see the fucking ocean.”_

 

It’s his and Perry’s table now, he amends, scritching the cat’s chin. “I hope you like him, darling,” he says quietly. “You better not scratch him, because it’ll almost be like scratching me, and that would be rude.”

She meows, a bright, high-pitched sound.

“Yeah, I know. I’m rude. So is he. We’d deserve it, if I’m honest.” He pets her for a couple minutes, watching the light change outside until the doorbell rings and she hops off.

Sixty shoos Perry away from the door, then opens it, letting Gavin in. “Work finally let you go for the evening, huh?”

“Just because I was late last Friday doesn’t mean I’m gonna make a habit of it.” Gavin rests his hands on his hips, pulling him close. He leans up, kissing his lips tenderly. “Besides, it’s the first time you’ve invited me to your house.”

Sixty kisses him again, lips lingering against his. “I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“It’s a step up from my apartment, isn’t it? You’ve got a tree in the yard and everything.”

“I like your apartment just fine.” He steps back just as Perry darts past them, screeching the way she does when she gets excited. She’s out of sight as quickly as she appeared, leaving Gavin with a befuddled smile.

“That’s Perry?”

“Yes. She’s affectionate. She’ll want to join us for the movie.” Sixty takes Gavin’s hand and leads him down the hall towards the living room, which has a comfortable sofa and decently sized television waiting for them.

The place is clean, neat, and has more space than a single person likely needs, having an entire ground floor and basement. Based on the way Gavin’s examining the place, he would bet the detective was expecting something more extravagant. More floors, designer furniture, an indoor pool. But that would be a waste.

“Beer or wine?” he asks, parting for the kitchen as Gavin settles on one of the leather couches.

“No bourbon?”

He opens the fridge. “What was that? Tap water?”

He can hear more than see the movement of Gavin flicking him off. He grabs two beers and shuts the fridge, opening them in the kitchen before carrying the bottles over to the couch and handing one to him. “Don’t tell me that, of all people, Gavin Reed is getting expensive tastes.”

“What if I am?”

Sixty sits next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. He brings his lips to Gavin’s ear. “You’d better learn to ask nicely,” he says, voice low.

“Or what?” Gavin asks, letting his free hand rest on Sixty’s thigh.

“I’ll have to teach you how to behave,” he says, moving his hand so that it rests under Gavin’s shirt.

“Sounds like you’re just encouraging me. I’m not inclined to be polite.”

“Such a shame.” He sets his beer aside, letting the fingers of his left hand dip under Gavin’s waistband. “Means we have quite a lot of work to do.” He can feel Gavin tense slightly, so he waits, letting him make the next move.

The next move is, apparently, kissing Sixty, which he is more than inclined to do. It ends up being a two-handed affair for both of them, and by the end of it Gavin is straddling him, both of them with dark lips and increased heart rates.

“And we haven’t even started the movie,” Sixty says when they find a moment to catch their breath, grinning up at him. He’s tempted to flip Gavin over and lick his way down his navel, a scenario that his preconstruction program automatically attempts to initiate. It crashes, as it always does, and he blinks away the error, staring up at his human.

“Forget the movie,” Gavin says, dipping down to kiss him again, just as intense as the last one. When he pulls away, it’s clear to both of them that Sixty’s aroused. “But, uh. We have to talk before we go any further.”

“Then let’s talk,” he says, curious but not apprehensive. Gavin seems comfortable enough to him.

Gavin sits up and lets Sixty maneuver himself into a similar position, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “What’s up?” Sixty asks.

Gavin watches his face closely. “I’ll be blunt. I’m trans. I don’t have a penis.”

“Alright,” Sixty says. “Not a problem. Does that change anything? What are you comfortable with?”

The tension bleeds out from Gavin’s shoulders. “No, it doesn’t change things. I’m comfortable with pretty much anything. I’ll let you know as we go along, alright? Shit, it’s the coming out that’s the hard part. It’s definitely not an issue?”

“Of course. Whatever your parts are, I’ll like them all the same, as long as we’re both enjoying ourselves. Don’t worry about it.”

Gavin sighs with relief. “Great.”

He hesitates only a moment before speaking again. “Nor are your scars cause for concern. I don’t want you to feel self-conscious, Gavin, and that’s why I say this now. I will not judge your body.”

Somehow, Gavin keeps himself from looking away. “So you know.”

“I’ve figured things out.” He’s felt Gavin’s arms through his sleeves enough times to know there’s scars across both of them. Lots of scars. Based on his current knowledge, there is a 92% chance those scars extend to other parts of his body. “If or when you want to talk about it, I leave that up to you.”

Gavin meets his eyes for a moment. “It’s not like you not to pry.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that this is too sensitive a topic. I’m not going to push you unless it becomes a problem.” Sixty sits up fully. “Anything else to talk about?”

“Nah.” Gavin kisses him. “I’ll just get anxious if we keep talking about important shit. How about let’s get a little more comfortable?”

Sixty grins. “Let’s.”

* * *

 

Saturday morning finds the two of them peacefully entwined an hour after the sunrise, a ray of weak light peeking through the curtains from the cloudy sky above. Sixty holds Gavin close, letting his eyes wander over the sleeping man’s form to take in every inch, cataloguing every imperfection and scar his eyes can see. The faint bruises he left, too, dotting his collarbone and neck.

He looks peaceful in a way he never is. There’s no hint of a smirk or a self-satisfied grin. No anger or frustration. He’s more relaxed than Sixty’s ever seen him. It’s almost as good as the smile he had before drifting off to sleep last night.

Almost.

He runs his fingers through Gavin’s hair, leaning forward for a kiss. His heart flutters when the kiss is sleepily returned, albeit quickly broken as Gavin stretches, his neck making a concerning popping sound.

“Morning, babe,” Sixty murmurs. “Sleep well?”

“Think so.” Gavin lies back with his arms outstretched. “I like your bed.”

“That good, huh?” He can’t resist kissing him again, delighting at the feel of stubble against his skin. It’s so very human.

Right now, _he_ feels human, and it’s enough to make him never want to get out of bed again.

Gavin reaches a hand up to feel Sixty’s hair, mussing it up. “You look good sleepy.” He yawns. “Done staring at me yet?”

He hums, leaning on his elbow. “No.” He likes the way Gavin looks. His sound, smell, feel, and taste, as well, but the appearance of him naked in Sixty’s own bed is too good to be true. He runs a finger down his chest, feeling the hairs there, a contrast to his own form. “I don’t want to stop looking at you.”

“Pff. You’re the handsome one.”

“Obviously. But you’re the gorgeous one, easily.”

Gavin laughs lightly and Sixty smiles, feeling his face heat up. “Whatever you say, Six.”

One more kiss. “You don’t have any work today, right?”

“Why? Planning to spend the morning in bed?”

“I can think of worse ways to spend a Saturday.” His hand dips below the covers, sliding along his side. “Any objections?”

“Mmm. None.” He stops his hand anyway, pushing it away before rolling out of bed. “I just gotta check my phone first. Hank’ll be pissed off if there’s a new lead and I’m not there to chaperone him.”

Sixty admires the view of his backside while he fishes for his phone amongst their clothes on the floor. “He’s the guy you work with, right? The one you’re always complaining about?”

“I’ll bet he whines about me just as much, so don’t get on my case for that.” He stands, phone in hand, unlocking it to check his messages. “And he’s a lieutenant, so don’t say shit to his face.”

“I can take him.”

“He’s stronger than he looks.” Gavin grins. “Shiiit, and he said they’re not dating.”

Sixty pushes himself upright, sitting cross-legged beneath the sheets. “Who? Hank?”

“Yeah, looks like he’s out for breakfast with his--well, his not-boyfriend, I guess. You’ve probably heard all about that, huh?”

“No. I’ve never met him.” He refuses to ponder what sort of truth or lie that statement is. “I doubt I know his ‘not-boyfriend’ either.”

Gavin whistles. “There’s no way you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Who is it?”

“It’s Connor.”

Sixty leans backwards, a sharp pang of anxiety and fear hitting him. Irrational, he tells himself. “What?”

“Your brother, Connor. Twins, right? You look the exact fucking same.”

Perhaps the fear is completely rational. “He’s…” He struggles to find the right words. Is there a human Connor in this world? Did the RK800 project roll out ahead of time? Is this an early deviant model feigning humanity? He needs to say something that won’t put himself in danger if the words don’t match up.

“He’s dead,” is what slips out, his voice soft. Vaguely he’s aware that it doesn’t fit with what Gavin’s said to him. “Don’t talk about him, he’s dead.” _Good riddance,_ he thinks, shivering at the thought of someone else with his face. “He’s gone.” Seven years he’s lived, knowing Connor had to be dead. There’s no way he ever left Detroit, and no way he survived in that city. Detroit’s most wanted, once Markus was out of the picture. “Don’t say that fucking name ever again.” His words are sharp and biting, voice raised out of fear and anger.

There’s no way.

Gavin’s beside the bed now, one hand resting on Sixty’s shoulder. “Whoa, hey,” he says, concern evident in his voice.

Sixty snatches the phone out of his hand and forces himself to look at the screen.

It’s a picture of Hank-- _He shot me,_ he thinks, the thought white and hot within his mind--and Connor, the two of them sitting in a café with breakfast muffins and coffee cups. Both smiling.

He drops the phone. “He’s dead,” he says, voice wavering. “He can’t be…”

Gavin sits down beside him, pulling him into a hug. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m here. I’ve got you,” he says soothingly, hand moving up and down Sixty’s back. “You’re okay. We’re okay. Connor’s alive and okay, and he’s in Detroit.” He kisses his cheek.

He can’t think. It’s like all his processes are stuck on Connor, pulling up hashed together, out of order memories. Hank. The Eden Club. Gavin, punching him in the break room. Gavin, pointing a gun at him. Hank, pointing a gun at him in the snow, error alerts dotting his vision. A _bang_ right before everything goes dark.

“Breathe, Sixty. Breathe. Breathe in with me, okay?”

Sixty breathes. He follows Gavin’s breathing, listening closely to his heart. He remembers so much. Hank, seared into his mind. Memories that aren’t his, taunting him to acknowledge them. The fondness for Hank that won’t go away.

He slumps against Gavin, hiding his face against his shoulder, and begins to cry.

He can’t remember the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Sixty's part in this story is as interesting for everyone else as it is for me.

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments! I am not seeking critique on this fic but I really appreciate comments. What you like, what you want to see, any of your thoughts...
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me in the [New ERA Discord](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) or on twitter as @gildedfrost.


End file.
